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Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains ;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
THE north-east spends his
he now shut up Within his iron cave, th' effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether; but, by swift degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, Sits on th' horizon round a settled gloom : Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath
; Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. Th’uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breath, seem through delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once,
THE SWISS PEASANT.
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
THE SWISS PEASANT. :
HERE the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
Yet still, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And ev’n those hills that round bis mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more.
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed,
Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale,
As, musing slow, I hail