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And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day—
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
But I behold a fearful sign,
To which the white men's eyes are blind. Their race, may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behindSave ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead.
Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood:
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.
Those grateful sounds are heard no more:
The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackened shore,
With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet.
TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN.
Grave of waters gone to rest!
Jewel, dazzling all the main!
Father of the silver crest!
Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping 'mid the wavy roar,
Sailing 'mid the angry storm,
Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,
Piling to the clouds thy form!
Wandering monument of rain,
Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,
Is it that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth
Shall unchain and gladden thee?
Roamer in the hidden path,
'Neath the green and clouded wave,
Trampling, in thy reckless wrath,
On the lost, but cherish'd brave;
Parting love's death-link'd embrace-
Crushing beauty's skeleton-
Tell us what the hidden race
With our mournéd lost have done!
Floating Sleep! who in the sun
Art an icy coronal;
And, beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining Death upon the sea!
Wend thee to the southern main;
Bend to God thy melting knee,
Mingle with the wave again!
CCCXXIX. THOMAS NOON TALFOURD,
THE COMMON WEAL.
Let the great interests of the state depend
Upon the thousand chances that may sway
A piece of human frailty; swear to me
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves
The means of sovereignty: our country's space,
So happy in its smallness, so compact,
Needs not the magic of a single name
Which wider regions may require to draw
Their interest into one; but, circled thus,
Like a blest family, by simple laws
May tenderly be governed-all degrees,
Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined
By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps,
But blended into one-a lovely form
Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords
Of sympathy pervading, shall endow
With vital beauty; tint with roseate bloom
In times of happy peace, and bid to flash
With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands
Of foreign power should threaten.
CCCXXX. WILL. HOWITT, 1795-18**.
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
While all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
Who has not lov'd, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You marked a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide ?
To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill,
Hovering above you high and still ?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sounds their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
CCCXXXI. MARY HOWITT, 179*-18**.
THE STRAWBERRY GIRL'S SONG.
It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it .ooks; There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on the brooks;
A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods,
To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the op'ning buds;
Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's root,
To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? They tell me that my father's poor-that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye
They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem;
It may be so-and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the
And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes!
I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves !
Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights,
Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm. delights;
I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing-sweet summer, come again.
CCCXXXII. JOHN KEATS, 1796-1820.
1. TO PAN.
O Thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death,
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken·
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds—
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!
Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare, while in half-sleeping fit;
Or upward raggeu precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells,
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples and fir cones brown,--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!
O hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild boars, routing tender corn,
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms :