THE WAKENING. How many thousands are wakening now! And some far out on the deep mid-sea, And some-O! well may their hearts rejoice- And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath, And some, in the gloomy convict-cell, To the dull deep note of the warning-bell, . When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, So are we roused on this chequer'd earth: Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, But one must the sound be, and one the call, THE BREEZE FROM SHORE. "Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life." Joy is upon the lonely seas, When Indian forests pour Forth, to the billow and the breeze, Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh CHANNING. O! welcome are the winds that tell The sailor at the helm they meet, Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet That woo him, from the moaning main, They woo him, whispering lovely tales And fount's bright gleam, in inland vales Across his lone ship's wake they bring And O! ye masters of the lay, Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part; Their tones are of the world, which time Sears not within the heart: They tell us of the living light In its green places ever bright. They call us, with a voice divine, Back to our early love, Our vows of youth at many a shrine, Welcome high thought and holy strain THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.' My heart shall be pour'd over thee-and break." THE spirit of my land, Prophecy of Dante. It visits me once more!- though I must die Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd, My own bright Italy! It is, it is thy breath, Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame Oh! that love's quenchless power Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, The nightingale is there, The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume, Never, oh! never more, On my Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shoreMy Italy! farewell! 1 Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his death-bed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry. Alas!-thy hills among, Had I but left a memory of my name, Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, But like a lute's brief tone, Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast, Pouring itself away As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns That swells, and floats, and dies, Yet, yet remember me! Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, Under the dark rich blue Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And in the marble halls, Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, |