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The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,
At midnight on the shore;
His corse is on the sea;
In Scudder's balcony.
BY CHARLES SPRAGU E.
When from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath, An Angel left her place in heaven,
And crossed the wanderer's sunless path. 'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke,
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, And thus with seraph voice she spoke:
“The Curse a Blessing shall be found.”
She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed; The thistle shrunk — the harvest smiled,
And Nature gladdened as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command, to him are given ; The village grows, the city springs, And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak- and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave, He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill;
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
He bids the ore illume the page, And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.
In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky, He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the Throne on high. In war renowned, in peace sublime,
He moves in greatness and in grace; His power subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.
BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.
I saw two clouds at morning,
Tinged with the rising sun;
And mingled into one:
I saw two summer currents
Flow smoothly to their meeting,
In peace each other greeting :
Such be your gentle motion,
Till life's last pulse shall beat;
Float on in joy, to meet