« AnteriorContinuar »
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
And China bloom at best is sorry
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.
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
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
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
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.
Is ever manifest his presence kind ;
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
Ode: On the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude.
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.
Beats strong amid the hills.
Who can paint
FAIR EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY.
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.
What more felicitie can fall to creature
LIGHT AND THE SKY.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Hamlet, Adl. Sc. 5.
Night wanes, – the vapors round the mountains | The sun had long since in the lap
Of Thetis taken out his nap,
From black to red began to turn.
Hudibras, Part II. Cant. ii.
DR. S. BUTLER.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred.
Up rose the sonne, and up rose Emelie.
Canterbury Tales : The Knightes Tale.
Paradise Lost, Book v.
Hamlet, Acti. Sc.2,
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows In the dead vast and middle of the night.
'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.
Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.
Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 4.
There does a sable cloud Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And cast a gleam over this tufted grove.
The dews of summer nights did fall,
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.
W. J. MICKLE.
Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side,
Or dreams lie sees, while overhead the moon
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
Wheels her pale course.
Paradise Lost. Book i.
Above their ranks the moonbeams play.
Are glancing in the mellow light.
Lines written to a March.
BISHOP HEBER. The desert-circle spreads,
The moon looks
On many brooks,
While gazıng on the moon's light.