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All countries have enough to serve their need :
If they seek fine things, thou dost make them run
For their offence ; and then dost turn their speed
To be commerce and trade from sun to sun.

Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in one.

But who hath praise enough 2 Nay, who hath any : None can express thy works, but he that knows them And none can know thy works, which are so many And so complete, but only he that owns them.

All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice
To honor thee; and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many ways in store
To honor thee : and so each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways; yet this, one more.

ARETHUSA.—Shelley.

ARETHUSA arose
From her couch of snows,
In the Acroceraunian mountains, -
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
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She leapt down the rocks
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams; —
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine,
Which slopes to the western gleams:
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing
In murmurs as soft as sleep ;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook
And opened a chasm
In the rocks; — with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It concealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below:
The beard and the hair
Of the river-god were
Seen through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph’s flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.

“O, save me! O, guide me,
And bid the deep hide me;
For he grasps me now by the hair : *
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;

And under the water
The Earth's white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream.
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main,
Alpheus rushed behind, -
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

Under the bowers Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearlèd thrones, – Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods, Uver heaps of unvalued stones, – Through the dim beams Which amid the streams Weave a net-work of colored light, And under the caves Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night: — Outspeeding the shark, And the sword-fish dark, Under the ocean-foam, And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts They passed to their Dorian home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted, Grown single-hearted, They ply their watery tasks.

342 THE COTTER’s SATURDAY NIGHT.

At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontidè they flow
Through the woods below,
And the meadows of Asphodel
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;—
Like spirits that lie
ln the azure sky,
When they love, but live no more.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. — Burns,

INSCRIBED to Rob ERT AIKEN, Esq.

My loved, my honored, much respected friend
No mercenary bard his homage pays;

With honest pride I scorn each selfish end :
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ;

Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter-day is near a close ;

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose:

The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, – This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary o'er the moor his course does homeward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' To meet their dad, wi' flichterin’ noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does all his weary, karking care beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, among the farmers roun’; Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unseigned, brothers and sisters meet, An° each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an” her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new ; The father mixes a” wi' admonition due.

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