1375.-HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL

BEAUTY.

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit

fierce, My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ?

Shelley.-Bom 1792, Died 1822.

The awful shadow of some unseen power

Floats, though unseen, among us—visiting

This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to

flower; Like moonbeams, that behind some piny

mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance

Each human heart and countenance,
Like hues and harmonies of evening,

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Like memory of music fled,

Like aught that for its grace may be
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine

upon Of human thought or form, where art thou

1373.-AUTUMN.

gone?

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is

wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying ;

And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead

Is lying.
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array,
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain falling, the nipt worm is

crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the year ; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey ;
Let your light sisters play ;
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

Why dost thou pass away and leave our

state, This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and

desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not for ever Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain

river; Why aught should fail and fade that once is

shown ;
Why fear, and dream, and death, and

birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom ; why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope ?

No voice from somo sublimer world hath

ever To sage or poet these responses given ; Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and

heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavourFrail spells, whose utter'd charm might not

avail to sever
From all we hear and all we see

Doubt, chance, and mutability.
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains

driven, Or music by the night wind sent Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream, Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds

depart, And come, for some uncertain moments

lent.
Man were immortal and omnipotent
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,
Keep with thy glorious train firin state within

his heart.
Thon messenger of sympathies

That wax and wane in lover's eyes !
Thou that to human thought art nourishment,

1374.—THE WIDOW BIRD.

A widow bird sate mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

Shelley.—Born 1792, Died 1822.

Like darkness to a dying flame!
Depart not as thy shadow came!

Depart not, lest the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.
While yet a boy ī sought for ghosts, and

sped Through many a listening chamber, cave,

and ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps

pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. I callid on poisonous names with which our

youth is fed ;
I was not heard; I saw them not.

When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are

wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming,

Sudden thy shadow fell on me
I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy!
I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers
To thee and thine; have I not kept the

vow ? With beating heart and streaming eyes,

Virtue, how frail it is !

Friendship too rare !
Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair !
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and brigbt,

Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day,
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou ! and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

even now

I call the phantoms of a thousand hours
Each from his voiceless grave. They have in

vision's bowers
Of studious zeal or love's delight

Outwatch'd with me the envious night : They know that never joy illumed my brow Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst

free
This world from its dark slavery-

That thou, ( awful loveliness,
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot

express. The day becomes more solemn and serene

When noon is past; there is a harmony

In Autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard nor

seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been !

Thus let thy power, which like the truth

Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply

Its calm-to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee-

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1377.--PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were

there. From distant Cush they troop'd, a warrior

train, Siwah’s green isle and Senaar's marly plain : On either wing their fiery coursers check The parch'd and sinewy sons of Amalek ; While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shan

galla strode. 'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with

gold, Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd ? Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's

fates, Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her

hundred gates, Mother of armies ! How the emeralds

glow'd, Where, flush'd with power and vengeance,

Pharaoh rode! And stoled in white, those brazen wheels

before, Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore; And still responsive to the trumpet's cry, The priestly sistrum murmur'd-Victory! Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's

gloom ? Whom come ye forth to combat :-warriors,

whom? These flocks and herds--this faint and weary

trainRed from the scourge, and recent from the

chain ? God of the poor, the poor and friendless

save! Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave! North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds

fly, The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. On earth's last margin throng the weeping

train ; Their cloudy guide moves on :-" And must

we swim the main ?

1376.-MUTABILITY. The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay

Tempts, and then flies ;
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

And strange and sad the whispering breezes

bore The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. Oh! welcome came the morn, where Israel

stood In trustless wonder by the avenging flood ! Oh! welcome came the cheerful morn, to

show The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below! The mangled limbs of men-the broken carA few sad relics of a nation's war; Alas, how few! Then, soft as Elim's well, The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. And he, whose harden'd heart alike had

borne The house of bondage and the oppressor's

scorn, The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams

subdued, In faltering accents sobb’d his gratitude, Till kindling into warmer zeal, around The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound; And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's

breast. She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky The dark transparence of her lucid eye, Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet

harmony. “Where now," she sang, “ the tall Egyptian

spear? On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot,

where? Above their ranks the whelming waters

spread. Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphèd!” And every pause between, as Miriam sang, From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, And loud and far their stormy chorus

spread“ Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath

triumphèd!”

Bishop Heber:-Born 1783, Died 1826.

Down, safely down the uarrow pass they

tread; The beetling waters storm above their head; While far behind retires the sinking day, And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray.

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them or cheerless came the night. Still in their van, along that dreadful road, Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch

of God. Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave On the long mirror of the rosy wave; While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply, Warm every cheek, and dance in every

eyeTo them alone-for Misraim's wizard train Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain; Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight

confine, And tenfold darkness broods above their line. Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led, And range unconscious through the ocean's

bed ; Till midway now,

—that strange and fiery form Show'd his dread visage lightning through

the storm ; With withering splendour blasted all their

might, And brake their chariot wheels, and marr'd

their coursers' flight. “Fly, Misraim, fly!” The ravenous foods

they see, And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. “Fly, Misraim, fly!” From Edom's coral

strand Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful

wand. With one wild crash tho thundering waters

sweep, And all is waves—a dark and lonely deep ; Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs

past, As mortal wailing swell’d the nightly blast.

1378.–FROM BISHOP HEBER'S

JOURNAL.

If thou wert by my side, my love,

How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale !

If thou, my love, wert by my side,

My babies at my knce, How gaily would our pinnace glide

O'er Gunga's mimic sea !

I miss thee at the dawning gray,

When on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam

I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,

Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn or eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,

My course be onward still ;
O’er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain ;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,

Across the dark-blue sea ;
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!

Bishop Heber.-Born 1783, Died 1826.

And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower-
The ceiba's crimson pomp display'd
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly glade ;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair,
The betel waves his crest in air ;
With pendant train and rushing wings,
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade, so green a sod,
Our English fairies never trod !
Yet who in Indian bowers has stood,
But thought on England's “good greenwood;”
And bless’d, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade ;
And breath'd a prayer (how oft in vain!)
To gaze upon her oaks again ?
A truce to thought-the jackal's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry;
And through the trees yon failing ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark, as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thonsand eyes-
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring,
The darkness of the copse exploring;
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass, in soften'd hum
Along the breezy alleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum :
Still as we pass, from bush and brier
The shrill cigala strikes his lyre;
And what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ?
I know that soul-entrancing swell,
It is-it must be— Philomel !
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye ;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But oh! with thankful hearts confess
E’en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth—his hope of heaven.

Bishop Heber.—Born 1783, Died 1826.

1379.-AN EVENING WALK IN

BENGAL. Our task is done !-on Gunga's breast The sun is sinking down to rest ; And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough, Our bark has found its harbour now. With furled sail and painted side, Behold the tiny frigate ride : Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams, The Moslem's savoury supper steams ; While all apart, beneath the wood, The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.

Come, walk with me the jungle through If yonder hunter told us true, Far off, in desert dank and rude, The tiger holds its solitude ; Now (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun) A dreadful guest but rarely seen, Returns to scare the village green. Come boldly on; no venom'd snake Can shelter in so cool a brake Child of the sun, he loves to lie 'Midst nature's embers, parch'd and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade ; Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of Death. Come on; yet pause! Behold us now Beneath the bamboo's arched bough, Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom, Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom;

1380.-EFIPHANY. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine

aid ! Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is liil

1382.-SPRING. When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the

laughing soil; When summer's balmy showers refresh the

mower's toil ; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow

and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his

Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those

that love the shade, The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the

drowsy glade, The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth

on his way, The moon and stars their Master's name in

silent pomp display. Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of

the skyShall man, alone unthankful, his little praise

deny ?
let the year forsake his course, the

seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and,

Saviour, honour thee. The flowers of spring may wither, the hope

of summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake

the shade, The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget

their old decree, But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will

cling to thee !

Bishop Heber:-Born 1783, Died 1826.

No;

1381.—THOU ART GONE TO THE

GRAVE. Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer

deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass

the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals

before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide

through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave-we no longer

behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by

thy side : But the wide arms of mercy are spread to

enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has

died.

Thou art gone to tie grave-and, its mansion

forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt linger'd

long, But the sunshine of heaven beam'd bright on

thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the

seraphim's song. Thou art gone to the grave—but 'twere wrong

to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian,

thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will

restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the

Saviour hath died.
Bishop Heber.-Born 1783, Died 1826.

1383.—LINES WRITTEN IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND,

YORKSHIRE.
Methinks it is good be here,
If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom ?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
But the shadows of eve that encompass with

gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the

tomb. Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold

clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty ? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could

adore, For the smoothness it held or the tin twhich it wore.