Of music-for then Eden was her own,
And all things breathed of beauty,-chiefly man
Drank of an angel's joy; where are ye flown,
Too fleeting suns? a mortal's thought may span
Your course-for ye return to whence your race began.

And we became all shadow-in the abyss,
The spirit's desolation, here we stand,
Wrestling in darkness for heavenly bliss,
And an immortal's essence: brightly grand,
How climb'st thou the skies? now lend'st a hand
To help us to thy altitude! away

Earth-born repinings—ye may not command

A sparkle of that intellectual ray,

Which yet from heaven descends, and communes with our clay.

WIFFEN.

THE SUN.

OST glorious art thou! when from thy pavilion
Thou lookest forth at morning; flinging wide
Its curtain clouds of purple and vermilion,

Dispensing life and light on every side;

Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied
Through glittering mist, opening each dew-gemmed flower,
Or touching, in some hamlet, far descried,

Its spiral wreaths of smoke that upward tower,
While birds their matin sing from many a leafy bower.

And more magnificent art thou, bright sun!
Uprising from the ocean's billowy bed:
Who, that has seen thee thus, as I have done,
Can e'er forget the effulgent splendours spread
From thy emerging radiance? Upwards sped
E'en to the centre of the vaulted sky,

Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed
Hues indescribable—of gorgeous dye,

Making among the clouds mute glorious pageantry.

Then, then how beautiful across the deep
The lustre of thy orient path of light!

Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and show their crests of white,
The eye unsated in its own despite,
Still up that vista gazes; till thy way

Over the waters seems a pathway bright
For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay
Man's homage unto Him who bade thee "rule the day."

And thou thyself, forgetting what thou art,
Appear'st thy Maker's temple, in whose dome,
The silent worship of the expanding heart
May rise, and seek its own eternal home:
The intervening billows' snowy foam,
Rising successively, seem steps of light,
Such as on Bethel's plain the angels clomb:

When to the slumbering patriarch's ravished sight, Heaven's glories were revealed in visions of the night.

Nor are thy evening splendours, mighty orb!
Less beautiful: and oh! more touching far,
And of more power, thought, feeling to absorb
In silent ecstasy, to me they are:
When watchful of thy exit, one pale star
Shines on the brow of summer's loveliest eve;
And breezes softer than the soft guitar,

Whose plaintive notes Castilian maids deceive,

Among the foliage sigh, and take of thee their leave

O then it is delightful to behold

Thy calm departure; soothing to survey

Through opening clouds, by thee all edged with gold,
The milder pomp of thy declining sway :
How beautiful, on church tower old and grey,
Is shed thy parting smile; how brightly glow
Thy last beams on some tall tree's loftiest spray,
While silvery mists half veil the trunk below,

And hide the rippling stream that scarce is heard to flow.

Majestic orb! when at the tranquil close
Of a long day in irksome durance spent,
I've wandered forth, and seen thy disc repose
Upon the vast horizon, while it lent
Its glory to the kindling firmament,

While clouds on clouds, in rich confusion rolled, - Encompassed thee as with a gorgeous tent,

Whose most magnificent curtains would unfold, And form a vista bright, through which I might behold

Celestial visions-then the wondrous story

Of Bunyan's pilgrims seemed a tale most true;
How he beheld their entrance into glory,

And saw them pass the pearly portal through;
Catching, meanwhile, a beatific view

Of that bright city, shining like the sun,

Whose glittering streets appeared of golden hue,
Where spirits of the just, their conflicts done,

Walked in white robes with palms, and crowned every one.

Past is that vision: views of heavenly things
Rest not in glories palpable to sense;
To something dearer hope exulting springs,
With joy chastised by humble diffidence ;
Not robes nor palms, give rapture so intense
As thought of meeting, never more to part,
Those we have loved on earth; the influence
Of whose affection o'er the subject heart,
Was by mild virtue gained, and swayed with gentle art.

BARTON.

SUNRISE.

UT yonder comes the powerful King of Day, Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach

Betoken glad.

Lo! now, apparent all,

Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air,

He looks in boundless majesty abroad;

And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,
High gleaming from afar.

THOMSON.

SUNRISE ON MONT BLANC.

WAKE, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.———

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink :
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald! wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillows deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!*
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?

* Beside the rivers of Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the glaciers the GENTIANA MAJOR grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy,
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?

And who commanded, (and the silence came,)
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!— God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the element !

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet, the avalanche unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast.Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me.-Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,