Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

THE CLOUD.

199 and symmetrical. And as the eye is the best composer, so light is the first of painters. There is no object so foul, that intense light will not make beautiful. And the stimulus it affords to the sense, and a sort of infinitude which it hath, like space and time, make all matter gay. Even the corpse hath its own beauty. But besides this general grace diffused over Nature, almost all the individual forms are agreeable to the eye, as is proved by our endless imitations of some of them-as the acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear, the egg, the wings and forms of most birds, the lion's claw, the serpent, the butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds, leaves, and the forms of many treesas the palm."-Emerson.

Clouds are masses of condensed vapour, suspended in the atmosphere; they are of the greatest importance to the earth, and they are the grand reservoir of the rains which descend and refresh the ground, and of the snows which clothe and keep it warm in winter. They also serve as a screen to protect the earth from the intense rays of the sun, and as a vehicle for the electric fluid.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams;

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it 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 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder-
It struggles and howls by fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains ;

And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
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 beneath, Its ardours of rest and love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer!

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
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 whirlwind my banners unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sun-beam 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 the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

HYMN OF NATURE.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I 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,

201

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I rise and upbuild it again.

SHELLEY.

XXI. HYMN OF NATURE.

"To separate the Deity from His works or from His revelations, is to surrender our intellect to error and to evil, and not less to discomfort. Look, then, upon Nature as his intelligent and benevolent production; and enlarge your mind by surveying it in all its richness, grandeur, and diversity. This will make your ideas of Him more sublime, and your feelings to Him more grateful, affectionate, and duteous."- Turner's Sacred History.

66 Beauty is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of the spring. It waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple, and those men, who are alive to it, cannot lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side."- Channing.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky;

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lours upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;

Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,

Till calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs,
The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay,

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;

But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow;

For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

XXII. CLEON AND I.

PEABODY.

"THE charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms.

Miller owns this field,

[blocks in formation]

Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them owns the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man has, but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet. This is the best part of these men's farms, yet to this their land-deeds give them no title."-. -Emerson.

CLEON hath a million acres,
Ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace,
In a cottage I:

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes,
Not a penny I;

Yet the poorer of the twain is
Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesseth acres,
But the landscape I;

Half the charms to me it yieldeth
Money cannot buy.

Cleon harbours sloth and dulness,
Freshening vigour I;

He in velvet, I in fustian,
Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur,
Free as thought am I ;
Cleon fees a score of doctors,
Need of none have I :
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed,
Cleon fears to die;

Death may come, he'll find me ready
Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in nature,

In a daisy, I;

Cleon hears no anthems ringing

In the sea and sky;

Nature sings to me for ever,

Earnest listener I;

State for state, with all attendants,

Who would change ?-not I.

CHARLES MACKAY.

XXIII. THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

"THE whole world is distracted with factions; and therefore, sure, the old time was much to be commended in tolerating, or rather giving occasion to some country May-games or sports, or dancing, piping, pageants, all which did serve to assuage the cruelty of man's nature, that,

« НазадПродовжити »