ANONYMOUS.

food ;

I have never disturbed your slender shells; At length thy pinions fluttered in Broalway, You have hung round my aged walk;

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white vecks And each might have sat, till he died in his fat, kissed Beneath his own cabbage-stalk :

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray But now you must fly from the soil of your sires ; Shone through the snowy veils like stars Then put on your liveliest crawl,

through mist! And think of your poor little snails at home, And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin. Now orphans or emigrants all.

Bloomed the bright blood through the transpar

ent skin. l'tensils domestic and civil and social I give you an evening to pack up ;

0, these were sights to touch an anchorite ! But if the moon of this night does not rise on What, do I hear thy slender voice complain ? your flight,

Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light, To-morrow I'll hang each man Jack up. As if it brought the meinory of pain : You 'll think of my peas and your thievish Thou art a wayward being, well, come near, tricks,

And pour thy tale of sorrow in my car. With tears of slime, when crossing the Styx.

What say'st thou, slanderer? “Rouge makes

thee sick,

And China bloom at best is sorry
THE HOUSEKEEPER.

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for The frugal snail, with forecast of repose,

blood ” ? Carries his house with him where'er he goes ; Go, 't was a just reward that met thy crime, Peeps out, and if there comes a shower of But shun the sacrilege another time.

rain, Retreats to his small domicile again.

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch, Touch but a tip of him, a horn, – 't is well, He curls up in his sanctuary shell.

To worship, not approach, that radiant white ;

And well might sudden vengeance light on such He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance, and ad

mired, And feasts himself ; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure

Murmured thy adoration, and retired.
Chattels ; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam, Thou 'rt welcome to the town ; but why come here
Knock when you will, – he's sure to be at To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
home.

Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
CHARLES LAMB.

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round, - the pale-eyed sisters, in my cell,

Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. TO A MOSQUITO. Fair insect, that, with thread-like legs spread Try some plump alderman : and suck the blood out,

Enriched with generous wine and costly meat ; And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,

In well-filled skins, soft as thy native mud, Dost murmur, as thon slowly sail'st about, Fix thy light pump, and raise thy freckled feet. In pitiless cars, full many a plaintive thing,

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, And tell'st how little our large veins should The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

bleed, Would we but yield them freely in thy need ; There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,

To fill the swelling veins for thee ; and now I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose, Has not the honor of so proud a birth;

Shall tempt thee as thou Aittest round the Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, broad and

brow; green,

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth. No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

sun

With violets like your eyes, – just for a kiss. PAN IN LOVE.

Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like, NAY! if you will not sit upon my knee,

And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go,

And not a beast shall hurt you, not a toad Lie on that bank, and listen while I play A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes.

But at your bidding give his jewel up. lu the full moonrise as I lay last night

The speckled shining snakes shall never sting, Under the alders on Peneus' banks,

But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms, Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream that welled And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon. Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots, You shall have berries ripe of every kind, I made the song the while I shaped the pipes.

And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines, "T is all of you and love, as you shall hear.

And sun-flecked apricots, and honeyed dates, The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved

And wine from bee-stung grapes, drunk with the Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath, Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins,

(Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet). Hung inotionless to listen; in the grass

And not a poisonous plant shall liave the power The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells;

To tetter your white flesh, if you 'll love Pan. And even the nightingale, that all the eve,

And then I'll tell you tales that no one knows; Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and of what the pines talk in the summer nights, thrilled,

When far above you hear them murmuring, Paused in his strain of love to list to mine.

As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze; Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this

And what the storm shrieks to the struggling

oaks He cannot shape, and better loves the clash of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes.

As it flies through them hurrying to the sea Fair as he is without, he's coarse within,

From mountain crags and cliffs. Or, when you 're Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine,

sad, And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round

I'll tell you tales that solemn cypresses Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat.

Have whispered to me. There's not anything But I have scores of songs that no one knows,

Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines, Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury,

Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore, Their strings can never sing like my sweet Slipping from sight, but I can tell to you. pipes,

Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself, Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur

Never can catch a syllable of this ; Against the oak-trunks for delight, or stretch

But with my shaggy ear against the grass Their plump sides for my pillow on the sward.

I hear the secrets hidden underground, Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs And know how in the inner forge of Earth, Leap when they hear, and from their noonday The pulse-like hammers of creation beat. dreams

Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see,

But no one knows such secrets as old Pan. Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance In the green shadows. Ay! and better songs, Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs, Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate The droning bass of honey-seeking bees, The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams, GOD EVERYWHERE IN NATURE, The breezy alto of the alder's sighs, And all the airy sounds that lull the grove

How desolate were nature, and how void When noon falls fast asleep among the hills. Of every charm, how like a naked waste Nor only these, — for I can pipe to you

Of Africa, were not a present God Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause, Beheld employing, in its various scenes, And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes; His active might to animate and adorn! Such songs -- and you shall hear them if you What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes, will

Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work! That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear. When it is viewed unfolding every bud, If you 'll but love me every day, I 'll bring Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf, The coyest flowers, such as you never saw, Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky, To deck you with. I know their secret nooks, - Rolling each billow, moving every wing They cannot hide themselves away from Pan. That fans the air, and every warbling throat And you shall have rare garlands; and your bed Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er As well as in the greatest of his works

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.

T. GRAY

Is ever manifest his presence kind ;

The meanest floweret of the vale,
As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen The simplest note that swells the gale,
Quick to and fro within a foot of air,

The common sun, the air, the skies,
Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, To him are opening paradise.
As in the systems of resplendent worlds,

Ode: On the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude.
Through time revolving in unbounded space.
His eye, while comprehending in one view

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, The whole creation, fixes full on me;

Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.

Essay on Man, Epistle 1.
As on me shines the sun with his full blaze,
While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same,
His hand, while holding oceans in its palm,

COUNTRY LIFE.
And compassing the skies, surrounds my life,
Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death. But on and up, where Nature's heart

CARLOS WILCOX.

Beats strong amid the hills.
Tragedy of the Lac de Gaude.

POPE.

LORD HOUGHTON.

THOMSON.

Who can paint

FAIR EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY.
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

I'll example you with thievery : The Seasons : Spring.

The sun 's a thief, and with his great attraction

Robs the vast sea : the moon's an arrant thief, All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

And her pale fire she snatches from the sun : All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; | The sea 's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves All discord, harmony not understood ;

The moon into salt tears: the earth 's a thief, All partial evil, universal good ;

That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, From general excrement : each thing's a thief. One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.

Timon of Athens, Adt iv. Sc. 3. Essay on Man, Epistle I.

SHAKESPEARE.

POPE.

What more felicitie can fall to creature

LIGHT AND THE SKY.
Than to enjoy delight with libertie,
And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, Sweet Phosphor, bring the day;
To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie, Light will repay
To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature. The wrongs of night ;
The Fate of the Butterfly.

Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Emblems, Book i.

F. QUARLES.
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees. But soft ! methinks I scent the morning air.
Essay on Mon, Epistle I.

Hamlet, Adl. Sc. 5.

SPENSER.

POPE.

SHAKESPEARE

Night wanes, – the vapors round the mountains | The sun had long since in the lap
curled

Of Thetis taken out his nap,
Melt into morn, and light awakes the world. And, like a lobster boiled, the morn

From black to red began to turn.

Lara.

BYRON.

Hudibras, Part II. Cant. ii.

DR. S. BUTLER.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
And tricks his beanis, and with new-spangled ore Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. When Adam waked, so customeil, for his sleep
Lycidas,

Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred.
But yonder comes the powerful King of Day
Rejoicing in the east.

Up rose the sonne, and up rose Emelie.
The Seasons : Summer,

Canterbury Tales : The Knightes Tale.

MILTON.

Paradise Lost, Book v.

MILTOX.

THOMSON.

CHAICEK.

Hamlet, Acti. Sc.2,

SHAKESPEARE.

WORDSWORTH.

SHAKESPEARE

SHAKESPEARE

MILTON.

CHESTERFIELD.

Comus.

MILTOX.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows In the dead vast and middle of the night.
That for oblivion take their daily birth
From all the fuming vanities of earth.
Sky-Prospect from the Plain of France.

'T is now the very witching time of night,

When churchyarıls yawn, and Hell itself Sweet the coming on

breathes out Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night Contagion to this world. With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,

Hamlet, dat iji. Sc. 2. And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.

Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. Paradise Lost, Book iv.

MILTON

Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.

Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 4.
The star that bids the shepherd fold.
Comus.

Tue Moox.
The dews of the evening most carefully shun,

There does a sable cloud Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.

Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
Advice to a Lady in Autum».

And cast a gleam over this tufted grove.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard ;

The dews of summer nights did fall,
It is the hour when lovers' vows

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Seem sweet in every whispered woril.

Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall

And many an oak that grew thereby.
Cunnor Hall.

W. J. MICKLE.
Now spurs the lated traveller apace,
To gain the timely inn.

Faëry elves,
Macbeth, Act lii. Sc. 3.

Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side,
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,

Or dreams lie sees, while overhead the moon
Night.

Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth

Wheels her pale course.
How beautiful is night!

Paradise Lost. Book i.
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor I see them on their winding way,
stain,

Above their ranks the moonbeams play.
Breaks the serene of heaven :
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine And waving arms and banners bright
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.

Are glancing in the mellow light.
Beneath her steady ray

Lines written to a March.

BISHOP HEBER. The desert-circle spreads,

The moon looks
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night !

On many brooks,
“ The brook can see no moon but this."

While gazıng on the moon's light.

Parisina,

BYRON

SHAKESPEARE.

MILTON,

Thalada.

SOUTHEY.

MOORE