Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die. SHAKSPEARE. MORNING. THIS castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they Most breed and haunt, I have observ'd the air Is delicate. SHAKSPEARE: Macbeth. SONNET. FULL many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the mead ows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all triumphant splendor on my brow; But out! alack! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. granite spurs That bind the centre to the valley's side, (The spokes from this strange middle to the wheel) Stretched in the fitful torrent of the gale, Bleached on the terraces of leaden cloud And passages of light, Sierras long In archipelagoes of mountain sky, Where it went wandering all the livelong year. He spoke not, yet methought I heard him say, "All day and night the same; in sun or shade, In summer flames, and the jagged, biting knife That hardy winter splits upon the cliff, -- From earliest time the same. One mother and one father brought us forth Thus gazing on the summits of the days, AND here the hermit sat, and told his beads, And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire, Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star: "How blest are we," he deemed, "who so comprise The essence of the whole, and of ourselves, As in a Venice flask of lucent shape, Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed With Suras from Time's Koran, live and pray, More than half grateful for the glittering prize, Human existence! If I note my Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love. WORDSWORTH. DOVER CLIFFS. COME on, sir; here's the place:stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yond' tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge, That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high:-I'll look Hath several objects, trees have got their heads, The fields their coats, that now the shining meads Do boast the paunce, the lily, and the rose, And every flower doth laugh as Zephyr blows? That seas are now more even than the land; The rivers run as smoothed by his hand; Only their heads are crispèd by his stroke. How plays the yearling, with his brow scarce broke, Now in the open grass, and frisking lambs Make wanton salts about their drysucked dams, Who to repair their bags do rob the fields. How is't each bough a several music yields? The lusty throstle, early nightingale, Accord in tune though vary in their tale. The chirping swallow, called forth by the sun, Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! To yon exulting thrush the Muse Intrusts the imperfect song; His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, |