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 whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-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.
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,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
BLACKSMITH.-(Longfellow.)
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling-rejoicing—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought
THE COMMON LOT.-(James Montgomery.)
Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man: and who was he?
Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perished from the earth:
This truth survives alone,—
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirit's rise and fall,—
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffered-but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed-but his delights are fled;
Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.
He loved but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was whatever thou hast been ;
He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth, the main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky,
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace
Than this-there lived a man!
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.-(Pope.)
Father of all! in every age,
In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined,
To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will:
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do;
This, teach me more than hell to shun;
That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives;
To enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand,
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land,
On each I judge Thy foe.
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