274 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, There, swan-like, let me sing and die. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. — Wordsworth. "WHY, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? "Where are your books? that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed “You look round on your mother earth, As if you were her first-born birth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye, - it cannot choose but see; THE TABLES TURNED. "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feel this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, I sit upon this old gray stone, THE TABLES TURNED. — Wordsworth. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. UP! up! my friend, and quit your books ; Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. T 275 And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; MANHOOD.-C. A. Dana. DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man know eth; The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling, With joy I bathe, and many souls beside THE CLOUD.- Shelley I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mothers breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 't is my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,- Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, |