THE CLOUD. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,- The triumphal arch through which I march When the powers of air are chained to my chair, 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. 280 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Tennyson BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea, 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, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. — Burns. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast Along the banks of Ayr, MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. I spied a man whose aged step His face was furrowed o'er with years, "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?” Began the reverend sage ; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, "O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, “Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, 281 282 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn ; Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great Through weary life this lesson learn,- Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still, we make ourselves And man, whose heaven-erected face Makes countless thousands mourn ! "See yonder poor o'erlabored wight, If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,- Why was an independent wish THE MARIGOLD. If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and power "Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressèd, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense "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, But, O, a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn ! 283 THE MARIGOLD. George Wither. WHEN with a serious musing I behold Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk ; |