THE CLOUD.

And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth;

The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
That forth through each least thing in Nature goeth,
In thee, O truest hero, deeper floweth ;
With joy I bathe, and many souls beside
Feel a new life in the celestial tide.

THE CLOUD.- Shelley.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

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I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,-
It struggles and howls at fits;

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Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains ;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

THE CLOUD.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be

neath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,

THE CLOUD.

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain

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The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

с

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the

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MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To the haven under the hill;

Tennyson.

But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea,
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

A DIRGE.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. - Burns.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

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Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Began the reverend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride,
I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime !
Alternate follies take the

sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right: