The towering headlands, crowned with mist,
Their feet among the billows, know
That ocean is a mighty harmonist;
Thy pinions, universal Air,

Ever waving to and fro,

Are delegates of harmony, and bear

Strains that support the Seasons in their round; Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

XIII

Break forth into thanksgiving,

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords
Unite, to magnify the Ever-living,

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words!
Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead,
Nor mute the forest hum of noon;
Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed
From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn
Of joy, that from her utmost walls
The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim
Transmits to Heaven! As deep to Deep

Shouting through one valley calls,

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured
Into the ear of God, their Lord!

XIV

A Voice to Light gave Being;

To Time, and Man, his earth-born chronicler;
A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,

And sweep away life's visionary stir;

The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride,
Arm at its blast for deadly wars)
To archangelic lips applied,

The grave shall open, quench the stars.

O, Silence! are Man's noisy years

No more than moments of thy life?

Is harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears,
With her smooth tones and discords just,
Tempered into rapturous strife,

Thy destined bond-slave? No! tho earth be dust
And vanish, tho the heavens dissolve, her stay
Is in the Word, that shall not pass away.

THE VALE OF AVOCA

BY THOMAS MOORE

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet,
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

GOING A-MAYING

BY ROBERT HERRICK

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-bespangled herb and tree!

Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth like the springtime fresh and green
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you:

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark

How each field turns a street, each street a park,

Made green and trimmed with trees! see how
Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day,
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth ere this is come

Back and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:

And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given,

Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament:

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time!

We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun.
And, as a vapor or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when you or I are made

A fable, song, or fleeting shade,

All love, all liking, all delight,

Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

ODE TO THE NORTHEAST WIND

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY

Welcome, wild Northeaster!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;

Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day:
Jovial wind of winter
Turns us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness

Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster!
Breast-high lies the scent,

On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.