REVE DU MIDI. WHEN o'er the mountain steeps, When soft the shadows ie, 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; With the heavy scent of blossoms as they And through whole solemn hours dost sit pass Then when the silent stream And the water-lilies gleam When the hot and burdened day and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth, By all the trembling mazes that she ran, And the plodding ant may dream her work is Hear us, great Pan! done THE BIRCH-TREE. And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; O Hearkener to the loud-clappping shears, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms! The many that are come to pay their vows 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 He is great, and he is just, Whilst we sing, 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 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 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, And for Love, whose heart hath bled- FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANG. THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell I love to see him track the street, Whatever is rung on that noisy bell- 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," Through thy leaves come whispering low When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Faint sweet sounds of long ago— Willow, sighing willow! Many a mournful tale of old Many a swan-like song to thee Down thy moonlight stream hath sent Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,— I tread, like thee, the crowded street, l'hou canst dismiss the world, and soar; Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, I would that, in such wings of gold, I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved), And while the world throngs on beneath, NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. THE GRASSHOPPER. TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON. ODE. O THOU, that swing'st upon the waving ear 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; But ab! the sickle! golden ears are cropt; 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. |