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The frighted eagle sprang in air,
The wolf ran howling from his lair,
God was not in the storm;
'Twas but the rolling of his car,
The trampling of his steeds from far.

"T was still again-and Nature stood
And calm'd her ruffled frame;
When swift from heaven a fiery flood
To earth devouring came;
Down to the depth the ocean fled,-
The sickening sun look'd wan and dead,
Yet God fill'd not the flame;

"T was but the terror of his eye
That lighten'd through the troubled sky.

At last a voice, all still and small,
Rose sweetly on the ear;

Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all
In heaven and earth might hear;
It spoke of peace, it spoke of love,
It spoke as angels speak above;
And God himself was there;
For O! it was a father's voice,
That bade the trembling heart rejoice.

CAMPBELL

AFTER A TEMPEST.

THE day had been a day of wind and storm;-
The wind was laid, the storm was overpass'd,
And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm,
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the great plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of
With pleasant vales scoop'd out, and villages between.

green,

The rain-drops glisten'd on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirr'd,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard

About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung
And gossip'd, as he hasten'd ocean-ward;
To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung,
And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper up-

sprung.

And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry, Flew many a glittering insect here and there, And darted up and down the butterfly,

That seem'd a living blossom of the air.

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way

Stroll'd groups of damsels frolicsome and fair; The farmer swung the scythe or turn'd the hay, And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. It was a scene of peace-and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the dell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, And glassy river, and white water-fall, And happy living things that trod the bright

And beauteous scene; while, far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight,

Was pour'd from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

I look'd, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,
Nor the black stake be dress'd, nor in the sun
The o'erlabour'd captive toil, and wish his life were
done.

Too long at clash of arms amid her bowers,
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last
The storm; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past;
Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall

lie.

BRYANT.

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. How ardent 1 seized it, with hands that were glowing!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well.
WOODWORTH.

THE TWO MONKEYS.

THE learned, full of inward pride,
The fops of outward show deride;
The fop, with learning at defiance,
Scoffs at the pedant and the science:
The Don, a formal solemn strutter,
Despises Monsieur's airs and flutter;
While Monsieur mocks the formal fool,
Who looks, and speaks, and walks, by rule.
Britain a medley of the twain,

As pert as France, as grave as Spain,
In fancy wiser than the rest,

Laughs at them both, of both the jest.
Is not the Poet's chiming close
Censured by all the sons of Prose?
While bards of quick imagination,
Despise the sleepy prose narration.
Men laugh at apes; they men contemn;
For what are we but apes to them?

Two Monkeys went to Southwark fair,
No critics had a sourer air;

They forced their ways through draggled folks,
Who gaped to catch Jack Pudding's jokes;
Then took their tickets for the show,
And got by chance the foremost row.
To see their grave observing face

Provoked a laugh through all the place.

66

Brother (says Pug, and turn'd his head),
The rabble's monstrously ill-bred."

Now through the booth loud hisses ran,
Nor ended till the show began.

The tumbler whirls the flip-flap round,
With somersets he shakes the ground;
The cord beneath the dancer springs;
Aloft in air the vaulter swings;
Distorted now, now prone depends,
Now through his twisted arms ascends;
The crowd, in wonder and delight,
With clapping hands applaud the sight.
With smiles, quoth Pug, "If pranks like these
The giant apes of reason please,

How would they wonder at our arts?
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've seen you cling,
Play, twist, and turn, in airy ring:
How can those clumsy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
These emulators of our kind

Discern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward."
"Brother (the grinning mate replies),
In this I grant that man is wise:
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due;
But when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to scorn the mimic pride;
For how fantastic is the sight,

To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we sometimes walk on two!

I hate the imitating crew."

GAY.

THE TROSACHS.

THERE's not a nook within this solemn pass,
But were an apt confessional for one

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,

That life is but a tale of morning grass,

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