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Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk,
Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrench'd but lately from its throne,
By some fierce whirlwind circling past,
Its huge roots mass'd with earth and stone,
One of the woodland kings is cast.

Above, the forest tops are bright
With the broad blaze of sunny light:
But now a fitful air-gust parts

The screening branches, and a glow
Of dazzling, startling, radiance darts

Down the dark stems, and breaks below; The mingled shadows off are roll'd, The sylvan floor is bathed in gold:

Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen,

Display their shades of brown and green:
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss,
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss;

The robin, brooding in her nest.

Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast;
And, as my shadow prints the ground,

I see the rabbit upward bound,

With pointed ears an instant look,

Then scamper to the darkest nook,

Where, with crouch'd limb, and staring eye,

He watches while I saunter by.

A narrow vista, carpeted

With rich green grass, invites my tread⚫

Here showers the light in golden dots,
There sleeps the shade in ebon spots,
So blended, that the very air
Seems network as I enter there.

The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum
Afar has sounded on my ear,
Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirrs to the sheltering branches near;
The little milk-snake glides away,
The brindled marmot dives from day;
And now, between the boughs, a space
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace:
On each side shrinks the bowery shade;
Before me spreads an emerald glade;
The sunshine steeps its grass and moss,
That couch my footsteps as I cross ;
Merrily hums the tawny bee,
The glittering humming-bird I see;
Floats the bright butterfly along,
The insect choir is loud in song:
A spot of light and life, it seems
A fairy haunt for fancy dreams.

Here stretch'd, the pleasant turf I press,
In luxury of idleness;

Sun-streaks, and glancing-wings, and sky,
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye:
While murmuring grass, and waving trees,
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze,

And water-tones that tinkle near,
Blend their sweet music to my ear;
And by the changing shades alone
The passage of the hours is known.

THE SEA-IN CALM.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours Upon us!-Mark! how still (as though in dreams

Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems! How silent are the winds!

No billow roars:

But all is tranquil as Elysian shores!

The silver margin which aye runneth round The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound: Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors!

What is the giant of the ocean dead,

Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun?

No; he reposes! Now his toils are done, More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be.

TO A SKY-LARK.

BY SHELLEY.

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run;

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad day-light

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds they flow not
Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heedeth not.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul, in secret hour,

With music sweet as love, which overflows her

bower:

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