On the mountain-peak I marked the sage at sunset, where he mused,

Forth looking on the continent of hills;

While from his feet the five long granite spurs

That bind the centre to the valley's side,

(The spokes from this strange middle to the wheel)

Stretched in the fitful torrent of the gale,

Bleached on the terraces of leaden cloud

And passages of light,

Sierras long In archipelagoes of mountain sky, Where it went wandering all the livelong year.

He spoke not, yet methought I heard him say,

"All day and night the same; in sun or shade,

In summer flames, and the jagged, biting knife

That hardy winter splits upon the cliff,

From earliest time the same.

One mother and one father brought us forth

Thus gazing on the summits of the days,

AND here the hermit sat, and told his beads,

And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire,

Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star:

"How blest are we," he deemed, "who so comprise

The essence of the whole, and of ourselves,

As in a Venice flask of lucent shape, Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed With Suras from Time's Koran, live and pray,

More than half grateful for the glittering prize,

Human existence! If I note my

powers,

So poor and frail a toy, the insect's prey,

Itched by a berry, festered by a plum,

The very air infecting my thin frame

With its malarial trick, whom every day

Rushes upon and hustles to the

grave,

Yet raised by the great love that broods o'er all

Responsive, to a height beyond all thought."

He ended as the nightly prayer and fast

Summoned him inward. But I sat and heard

Unutterable love. Sound needed none,

Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form

All melted into him; they swallowed up

His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life.

In such access of mind, in such high hour

Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.

No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;

Rapt into still communion that transcends

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,

His mind was a thanksgiving to the power

That made him; it was blessedness and love.

WORDSWORTH.

DOVER CLIFFS.

COME on, sir; here's the place:stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so low!

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,

Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yond' tall anchoring bark

Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,

That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high:- I'll look no more;

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

SHAKSPEARE.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark

How each field turns a street, each street a park

Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how

Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each doore, ere this,

An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up

of white-thorn neatly interwove;

As if here were those cooler shades of love.

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;

But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

HERRICK.

THE BIRDS OF KILLING

WORTH.

IT was the season when through all the land

The merle and mavis build, and building sing

Those lovely lyrics written by His hand

Whom Saxon Cadmon calls the
Blithe-heart King;

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring;

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud

Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,

Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said,

"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,

Speaking some unknown language, strange and sweet

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing,

hailed

The village with the cheers of all their fleet;

Or, quarrelling together, laughed

and railed

Like foreign sailors landed in the

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,

The instinct of whose nature was to kill;

The wrath of God he preached from year to year,

And read with fervor Edwards on the Will:

His favorite pastime was to slay the

deer

In summer on some Adirondack

hill: