Ah, well I remember, Ere dying December Would fall like a snow-flake, and melt on thy breast, The little brown sparrow Used to send his low song to his mate on the nest. With a silvery skein Wove of snow and of rain, Thou didst wander at will through the bud-laden land,— All the air a sweet psalm, And the meadow a palm,— As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand. When the school-master's daughter And laughingly proffered the crystal to me, O, there ne'er sparkled up A more exquisite cup Than the pair of white hands that were brimming with thee! And there all together, In bright summer weather, Did we loiter with thee, along thy green brink; And how silent we grew, If the robin came too, When he looked up to pray, and then bent down to drink! Ah, where are the faces, That so often smiled back in those soft days of May? Thou didst double the band, As idle as daisies-and fleeting as they! RHYMES OF THE RIVER. Like the dawn in the cloud, Lay the babe in its shroud, And a rose-bud was clasped in its frozen white hand: It had opened the book, As if sweet-breathing June were abroad in the land! O pure placid river, In the Gardens of Paradise, hard by the throne! Gently drifted before, We may find the lost blossoms that once were our own. Ah, beautiful river, Flow onward forever! Thou art grander than Avon, and sweeter than Ayr; If a star has been taken, In thy bosom we look-bud and Pleiad are there! I take up the old words, Like the song of dead birds, That were breathed when I stood farther off from the sea: When I heard not its hymn, When the headlands were dim: Shall I ever again weave a rhythm for thee? BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 21 Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc. HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course?—so long he seems to pause Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, Into the mighty vision passing-there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven, Awake, my soul! not only passive praise MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC. Co-herald! wake, oh wake! and utter praise. And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded—and the silence came-- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 23 "GOD!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "GOD!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "GOD!" and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peak, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, To rise before me--rise, oh ever rise, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. THE The Beacon. HE scene was more beautiful far to my eye, The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed, No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast |