REVE DU MIDI.

WHEN o'er the mountain steeps,
The hazy noontide creeps,
And the shrill cricket sleeps
Under the grass;

When soft the shadows ie,
And clouds sail o'er the sky,
And the idle winds go by,

HYMN 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 lovest to see the Hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;

pass

Then when the silent stream
Lapses as in a dream,

And the water-lilies gleam
Up to the sun;

When the hot and burdened day
Rests on its downward way,
When the moth forgets to play

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,

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-clappping 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 huntsmen! Breather round our
farms,

To keep off mildews, and all weather harms!
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors!
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge-see,
Great son of Dryope,

The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!

Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings-such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth; Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown-but no more: we humbly

With his honor and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,
He is ever good, and must
Thus be honored. Daffodillies,
Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,
Let us fling,

Whilst we sing,
Ever holy,

Ever holy,

Ever honored, ever young!

Thus great Pan is ever sung.

BEAUMONT AND FLETOULER.

THE BIRCH-TREE.

65

RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sun. shine,

Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of some tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb for ever!

While all the forest, witched with slumber

ous moonshine,

Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended,

I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the widehung silence.

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad, Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow

Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet,

Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some startled Dryad.

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping;

Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience,

And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping

67

And down unto the running brook,

I've seen them nimbly go; And the bright water seemed to speak A welcome kind and low,

Therefore, wave and murmur on,
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,

And for Love, whose heart hath bled-
Ever, willow, willow!

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANG.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last;
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight

moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning

light,

When the child is waked with "nine at

night,"

Faint sweet sounds of long ago—

Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick Love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow—
Willow, sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree;
Many a lute its last lament

Down thy moonlight stream hath sent
Willow, sighing willow!

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,—
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street,
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,

l'hou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest.

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;

I would I could look down unmoved

(Unloving as I am unloved),

And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON.

ODE.

O THOU, that swing'st upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heaven, where now
thou'rt reared;

The joys of air and earth are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then;
Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ab! the sickle! golden ears are cropt;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night;
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt,
And what scythes spared, winds shave off
quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now green ice, thy

joys

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends! we will create

A genuine suminer in each other's breast;

THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; "T is filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow, Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire. Phoebus is himself thy sire.