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When I widen the rent in my wind-built ten,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, -
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
[ pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex
gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the
tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

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BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play !

O, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay !

And the stately ships go on
To the haven under the hill;

But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still !

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea,

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

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WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,

One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care ;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

“Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?”
Began the reverend sage ;
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage 2
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

“The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride,-
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

“O man' while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time !
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime !
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn ;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

“Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;

Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn ;

Then age and want — O ill-matched pairl —
Show man was made to mourn.

“A few seem favorites of sate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, O, what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn -
Through weary life this lesson learn, –
That man was made to mourn.

“Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still, we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn

“See yonder poor o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I’m designed yon lordling's slave,

By Nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish

E’er planted in my mind 2

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn ?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn ?

“Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressèd, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn

“O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend,--
The kindest and the best
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn 1
But, O, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!”

THE MARIGOLD. — George Wither.

WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed as 't were with tears, till he returns ;

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