Yes: fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in re pose In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath, In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar,In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more, Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign: But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the dayWhile the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious feet; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. AN ITALIAN SUMMER EVENING. BY BYRON. THE moon is up, and yet it is not night- Where the day joins the past eternity; While on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest! A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rheatian hill As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order :-gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows. Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, And now they change; a paler shadow shows With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest till-'tis gone-and all is I'd have you do it ever: when you sing, I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms; To sing them too: When you do dance, I wish you A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own No other function: Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens. NIAGARA. BY L. H. SIGOURNEY. FLOW en for ever, in thy glorious robe Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour Ah! who can dare To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope, Dost rest not night or day. The morning stars, This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Every leaf That lifts itself within thy wide domain, Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty ; But as it presses with delirious joy To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, |