To the golden sands and the leaping bar, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child! CHARLES KINGSLEY. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. ALFRED TENNYSON. TO SENECA LAKE. ON thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O, I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. THE BUGLE. FROM "THE PRINCESS." THE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. THE FALL OF NIAGARA. THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, Yea, what is all the riot man can make JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. "How does the water The request of their brother, So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 't was in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well Through moss and through brake, And away it proceeds, The cataract strong Its caverns and rocks among ; Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And working and jerking, And glittering and frittering, Dividing and gliding and sliding, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, cing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirl ing, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blend ing All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore. ROBERT Southey. WHAT THE WINDS BRING. WHICH is the wind that brings the cold? Which is the wind that brings the heat? When the south begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain? Which is the wind that brings the flowers? EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. THE DANCING OF THE AIR. AND now behold your tender nurse, the air, And common neighbor that aye runs around, How many pictures and impressions fair Within her empty regions are there found, Which to your senses dancing do propound! For what are breath, speech, echoes, music, winds, But dancings of the air in sundry kinds? For when you breathe, the air in order moves, Hence is her prattling daughter, Echo, born, And thou, sweet Music, dancing's only life, The ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech, Loadstone of fellowship, charming-rod of strife, The soft mind's paradise, the sick mind's leech. With thine own tongue thou trees and stones canst teach, That, when the air doth dance her finest measure, Then art thou born, the gods' and men's sweet pleasure. FROM "THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.” KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime; Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom? Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of |