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THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

STRONG climber of the mountain's side,

Though thou the vale disdain,
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide

The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is rollid;
The moorland hath not yet puț on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling * spreads his wing,

Where dewy daisies gleam ;
And here the sun-flowert of the spring

Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox

Complains that Sol is slow
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks

His royal robe to throw.
But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils in light the snake ;
And here the fire-tuft I hath begun

Its beauteous nest to make.

• The Hedge Sparrow. + The Dandelion.

The Golden-Crested Wren. VOL. 11.

с

O then, while hums the earliest bee

Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane !
For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,

And wakes the earliest bee !
As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure,
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature !
A world not scorn'd by Him who made

Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,

And splendid in his light. Light ! not alone on clouds afar

O'er storm-loved mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star,

Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book

To sky, and sea, and land-
A page on which the angels look,

Which insects understand !
And here, O Light ! minutely fair,

Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here.

Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,

Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide-

And that Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heav'n in madness flings

The blind foam of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll

The roar that ne'er is still ?
'Tis mute as death !—but in my soul

It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone !
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O’er pigmy valleys lone !
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,

Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.
O God of maryels! who can tell

What myriad living things
On these grey stones unseen may dwell ;

What nations, with their kings?
I feel no shock, I hear no groan,

While fate perchance o'erwhelms Empires on this subverted stoneA hundred ruin'd realms !

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,

Impellid by woe or whim,
May crawl some atoms cliffs to see-

A tiny world to him !
Lo! while he pauses, and admires

The works of Nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,

And all to him is night!
O God of terrors ! what are we?

Poor insects, spark'd with thought !
Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee

Could smite us into nought !
But should'st thou wreck our father-land

And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of thine hand

Thy little ones would sleep.

SLEEP.

SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home;
The friendless find in thee a friend ;
And well is he, where'er he roam,
Who meets thee at his journey's end.
Thy stillness is the planet's speed;
Thy weakness is unmeasured might;
Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steed-
Worlds flash and perish in thy sight.
The daring will to thee alone
The will and power are given to thee-
To lift the veil of the unknown,
The curtain of eternity-
To look uncensured, though unbidden,
On marvels from the seraph hidden !
Alone to be-where none have been !
Alone to see—what none have seen!
And to astonish'd reason tell
The secrets of th' Unsearchable !

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