THE FIRE-FLY. ELL us, O Guide, by what strange natural laws night, Such lunar brightness? Why, -for what grave cause Is this earth-insect crowned with heavenly light? Peace! Rest content! See where, by cliff and dell, Past tangled forest-paths and silent river, And thou, if robbed of that strange right of birth, BRYAN WALLER PROCter. A STILL PLACE. NDER what beechen shade, or silent oak, Lies the mute sylvan now, mysterious Pan? Once, (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran Clear from their fountains,) as the morning broke, 'Tis said the Satyr with Apollo spoke, And to harmonious strife with his wild reed Challenged the god, whose music was indeed Divine, and fit for heaven. Each played, and woke Beautiful sounds to life,-deep melodies; One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care That flocks and birds all answered him; and one Shook his immortal showers upon the air. That music hath ascended to the sun; But where the other? Speak, ye dells and trees! BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. LIFE OME, track with me this little vagrant rill, Wandering its wild course from the mountain's breast; Now with a brink fantastic, heather-drest, And playing with the stooping flowers at will; And hurries on, leaping with sparkling zest So let us live. Is not the life well spent Which loves the lot that kindly Nature weaves ; For all inheriting, or adorning, earth? THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. 1 E hasten to the dead! What seek ye there, Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear? O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess All that anticipation feigneth fair! Thou vainly curious mind, which wouldest guess With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, A refuge in the cavern of grey death? O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. ONTH after month the gathered rains descend And from the desert's ice-girt pinnacles Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells By Nile's aërial urn, with rapid spells Urging its waters to their mighty end. O'er Egypt's land of memory floods are level, And they are thine, O Nile-and well thou knowes: That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou flowest. Beware, O Man-for knowledge must to thee Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. |