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Among the waving tree-tops; if now there
Thou sleepest in a current of cool air,
Within some nook, amid thick flowers and moss
Grey-coloured as thine eyes, while thy dreams toss
Their fantasies about the silent earth,
In waywardness of mirth-
Oh come! and hear the hymn that we are chanting
Amid the starlight through the thick leaves slanting.

Thou lover of the banks of idle streams
O'ershaded by broad oaks, with scattered gleams
From the few stars upon them; of the shore
Of the broad sea, with silence hovering o'er,-
The great moon hanging out her lamps to gild
The murmuring waves with hues all pure and mild,-
Where thou dost lie upon the sounding sands,
While winds come dancing on from southern lands
With dreams upon their backs, and unseen waves
Of odours in their hands: thou, in the caves
Of the star-lighted clouds, on summer eves
Reclining lazily, while Silence leaves
Her influence about thee: in the sea
That liest, hearing the monotony
Of waves far-off above thee, like the wings
Of passing dreams, while the great ocean swings
His bulk above thy sand-supported head :-
As chained upon his bed
Some giant, with an idleness of motion,
So swings the still and sleep-enthrallèd ocean.
Thou who dost bless the weary with thy touch,
And makest Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart;
Pale Disappointment lose her constant smart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, and gain new cheer in sleep:
Thou who dost bless the birds, in every place
Where they have sung their songs with wondrousgrace
Throughout the day, and now, with drooping wing,
Amid the leaves receive thy welcoming :

Come with thy crowd of dreams, O thou! to whom
All noise is most abhorred, and in this gloom,
Beneath the shaded brightness of the sky,
Where are no sounds but as the winds go by,-
Here touch our eyes, great Somnus! with thy wand.
Ah! here thou art, with touch most mild and bland,
And we forget our hymn, and sink away;
And here, until broad day
Come up into the sky, with fire-steeds leaping,
Will we recline, beneath the vine-leaves sleeping.

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O THOU delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,

Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers,

And from enmassèd bowers
That over grassy walks their greenness fling,

Come, gentle Spring!

Thou lover of young wind, That cometh from the invisible upper sea

Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, bind, And, settling in the trees deliciously,

Makes young leaves dance with glee, Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,

Winter unkind,

Come to us; for thou art
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring,

Touching the sacred feeling of the heart,
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming;

And thou dost ever bring A tide of gentle but resistless art

Upon the heart.

Red Autumn from the south Contends with thee; alas! what may he show?

What are his purple-stained and rosy mouth, And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,

And timid, pleasant glow, Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth,

And greenest youth?

Gay Summer conquers thee;
And yet he has no beauty such as thine.

What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea,
To the pure glory that with thee doth shine?

Thou season most divine,
What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy

Compare with thee?

Come, sit upon the hills, And bid the waking streams leap down their side,

And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills; And when the stars upon the sky shall glide,

And crescent Dian ride,
I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,

On grassy hills.

Alas! bright Spring, not long Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence;

For thou shalt die the summer heat among,
Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense,

And, gone for ever hence,
Exist no more: no more to earth belong,

Except in song

So I who sing shall die, Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow;

And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow

Which now sometimes I borrow, And breathe of joyance keener and more high,

Ceasing to sigh!

S. MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. [Born in 1810. Miss Fuller was educated by her father, and applied herself to learning with severe application. She became principal teacher in Greene St. School, Providence, Rhode Island ; published Woman in the Nineteenth century, and other prose works, and was a contributor to the New. York Tribune from 1844. In 1846 she came to Europe, and soon afterwards married the Marchese Ossoli. On her voyage back to America she was drowned, 16 July 1850, along with her husband and their infant, from whom she refused to be divided. Emerson has written the Life of this remarkable woman, who produced a deep impression upon many of her eminent contemporaries. Her published poems are not numerous].

Each Orpheüs must to the depths descend, -

For only thus the poet can be wise ;
Must make the sad Persephone his friend,

And buried love to second iffe arise ;
Again his love must lose through too much love,

Must lose his life by living life too true,
For what he sought below is passed above,

Already done is all that he would do; Must tune all being with his single lyre,

Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain, Must search all Nature with his one soul's fire,

Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. If he already sees what he must do, Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shining view.

For the power to whom we bow
Has given its pledge that, if not now,
They of pure and steadfast mind,
By faith exalted, truth refined,
Shall hear all music loud and clear,
Whose first notes they ventured here.
Then fear not thou to wind the horn,
Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn.


Ask for the castle's king and queen :-
Though rabble rout may rush between,
Beat thee senseless to the ground,
In the dark beset thee round-
Persist to ask and it will come,
Seek not for rest in humbler home:
So shalt thou see what few have seen,
The palace-home of King and Queen.


CONTENT, in purple lustre clad,
Kingly serene, and golden glad;
No demi-hues of sad contrition,
No pallors of enforced submission ;-
Give me such content as this,
And keep awhile the rosy bliss.

IN times of old, as we are told,
When men more childlike at the feet

Of Jesus sat than now,
A chivalry was known, more bold
Than ours, and yet of stricter vow,

And worship more complete.
Knights of the Rosy Cross: they bore

Its weight within the breast, but wore,
Without, the sign, in glistening ruby bright.
The gall and vinegar they drank alone,
But to the world at large would only own
The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.
They knew the secret of the sacred oil

Which, poured upon the prophet's head,

Could keep him wise and pure for aye, Apart from all that might distract or soil;

With this their lamps they fed, Which burn in their sepulchral shrines,

Unfading, night and day.

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