Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air;

Voyager of light and noon;

Epicurean of June;

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,—
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May-days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance
With a colour of romance,
And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,

Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,

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Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,

Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

CCLXVI

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

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Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air-

Lone-wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou' art gone-the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

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Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30 In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

William Cullen Bryant.

CCLXVII

ASPIRATION.

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!
Joy for the promise of another birth!
For oft oppressive unto pain becomes
The riddle of the earth.

A weary weight it lay upon my youth,
Ere I could tell of what I should complain;
My very childhood was not free, in truth,
From something of that pain.

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Hours of a dim despondency were there,

Like clouds that take its colour from the rose,
Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,
But its own sadness knows.

Youth grew in strength-to bear a stronger chain;

In knowledge grew-to know itself a slave;
And broke its narrower shells again, again,

To feel a wider grave.

What woe into the startled spirit sank,
When first it knew the inaudible recall,-
When first in the illimitable blank
It touched the crystal wall!

Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,
Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;
And day encircling day clasps closer in
Our solitary souls.

O for the time when in our seraph wings
We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne-
The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,
We know as we are known.

ΙΟ

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Thomas Burbidge.

CCLXVIII

THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE.

Beneath an Indian palm a girl

Of other blood reposes;

Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy

Is leaning fancy-bound,

Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.

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Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxt the frosty twine;

The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,

As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows.

ΙΟ

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Lord Houghton.

CCLXIX

A SUMMER REMINISCENCE.

I hear no more the locust beat

His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet

Of clover and of scented hay.

No more I hear the smothered song

From hedges guarded thick with thorn:

The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.

I sit before my fire alone,

And idly dream of all the past:

I think of moments that are flown

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ΙΟ

I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,

I hear them murmur through the rye,

I see the milky clouds that seek
Some nameless harbour in the sky.

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