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,

The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, 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 tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

SHELLEY.

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born,)

Round in itself encloses And, in its little globe's extent, Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies',
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the
sphere.

Restless it rolls, and insecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away,
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-
til,

White and entire, although congealed and chill;

Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run

Into the glories of the almighty sun. MARVELL.

MIST.

LOW-ANCHORED cloud, Newfoundland air,

Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and
violets,

And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields.
THOREAU.

HAZE.

WOOF of the fen, ethereal gauze,
Woven of Nature's richest stuffs,
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;

Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
Breakers of air, billows of heat,
Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,

From heath or stubble rising without song,

Establish thy serenity o'er the fields. THOREAU.

AT SEA.

THE night is made for cooling shade, For silence, and for sleep;

And when I was a child, I laid
My hands upon my breast, and prayed,
And sank to slumbers deep:
Childlike as then I lie to-night,
And watch my lonely cabin-light.

Each movement of the swaying lamp
Shows how the vessel reels:
As o'er her deck the billows tramp,
And all her timbers strain and cramp

With every shock she feels.

It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hingèd socket turns.

Now swinging slow and slanting low,
It almost level lies;

And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go
With restless fall and rise,
The steady shaft is still upright,
Poising its little globe of light.

O hand of God! O lamp of peace!
O promise of my soul!.
Though weak, and tossed, and ill at
ease,

Amid the roar of smiting seas,

The ship's convulsive roll,

I own with love and tender awe
Yon perfect type of faith and law.

A heavenly trust my spirit calms,
My soul is filled with light:
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms,
The wild winds chant: I cross my
palms,

Happy as if to-night

Under the cottage roof again

I heard the soothing summer rain.
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.