THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.
THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight;
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.
At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and round her flings
A shower of light from her crimson wings;
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy.
At noon she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet;
She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip.
As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.
At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy,
And round the skirts of their deepened fold
She paints a border of purple and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has passed away
She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Then wheeling her flight through the gladdened air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere
SUNRISE, FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.
HE laughing Hours nave chased away the Night,
Plucking the stars out from her diadem:
And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace,
Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east,
Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy.
And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain
Of borrowed beauty, how she yields her charms,
And, pale with envy, steals herself away!
The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on,
Attendant on the day-the mountain-tops
Have lit their beacons, and the vales below
Send up a welcoming ;- -no song
of birds
Warbling, to charm the air with melody,
Floats on the frosty breeze, yet Nature hath
The very soul of music in her looks!
The sunshine and the shade of poetry.
I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle,
Temple of Nature! and look down with awe
On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen;
Around me crowd the giant sons of earth,
Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued;
Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise
Unrifted to the Thunderer-now they seem
A family of mountains, clustering round
Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching
To meet the partial glances of the day.
Far in the glowing east the flickering light,
Mellowed by distance, with the blue sky blending,
Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.
The Sun comes up! away the shadows fling From the broad hills-and, hurrying to the west, Sport in the sunshine, till they die away.
The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down,
Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light
Dances along with their perennial flow
And there is beauty in yon river's path,
The glad Connecticut! I know her well,
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charms:
At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills,
Sportfully hiding-then again with glee
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place.
Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves,
And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes, and woods,
And all that hold the faculty entranced,
Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air,
And sleep in the deep quietude of joy.
There is an awful stillness in this place,
A Presence, that forbids to break the spell,
Till the heart pour its agony in tears.
But I must drink the vision while it lasts;
For even now the curling vapours rise,
Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace
These towering summits-bidding me away :-
But often shall my heart turn back again,
Thou glorious eminence! and when oppressed,
And aching with the coldness of the world,
Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee.
HAT is that, Mother?"-" The lark, my child
The Morn has but just looked out, and smiled When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise."
"What is that, Mother?"-" The dove, my son !-
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love."
"What is that, Mother ?"-" The eagle, boy!-
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line."
"What is that, mother?"-"The swan, my love !-
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die:
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home."
"Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."-JEREMY TAYLOR TO EVELYN (1656.)
EAUTIFUL thing! with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph-choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless?
Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,
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