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 Hath several objects, trees have got their heads, The fields their coats, that now the shining meads Do boast the paunce, the lily, and the rose, And every flower doth laugh as Zephyr blows? That seas are now more even than the land; The rivers run as smoothed by his hand; Only their heads are crispèd by his stroke. How plays the yearling, with his brow scarce broke, Now in the open grass, and frisking lambs Make wanton salts about their drysucked dams, Who to repair their bags do rob the fields. How is't each bough a several music yields? The lusty throstle, early nightingale, Accord in tune though vary in their And crested lark, doth his division run. The yellow bees the air with murmur fill, The finches carol and the turtles bill; Whose power is this? What god ? Behold a King, Whose presence maketh this perpetual spring, The glories of which spring grow in that bower, And are the marks and beauties of his power. BEN JONSON. FIRST OF MAY. WHILE from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, For May is on the lawn. A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Foreran the expected power, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, Shakes off that pearly shower. All Nature welcomes her whose sway Tempers the year's extremes; Who scattereth lustres o'er noonday, Like morning's dewy gleams; While mellow warble, sprightly trill, The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still The balance of delight. Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids At peep of dawn would rise, And wander forth, in forest glades Thy birth to solemnize. Though mute the song- to grace the rite Untouched the hawthorn bough, Thy spirit triumphs o'er the slight; Man changes, but not thou! Thy feathered lieges bill and wings Awake to silent joy: Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, |