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1. • Is it the sun that opens these dim eyes ?
The morning dew that wets this matted hair ?• It is the sun that lights this stony lairAwake, my brothers; brothers dear, arise! • Yet sleep ye on, for there is peace
in sleep, • When spirits plunge in visions sweet and deep,
* Earth-freed and pure, swimming the boundless ocean • Of sunless space, breathing its own clear light• And such a vision I have dream'd to-night,
Thinking myself a disembodied motion• But now upon the earth again I creep.'
No low breath linger’d on his anxious ear:
And kiss'd the pale lips with a love unblenching :-
The fingers cold his feverish flesh are clenching :
The pure air play'd upon his pallid face,
> III. The earth was embroider'd with half-blown flowers, The grass was wet with night's softest showers, And the dripping leaves in the sun were glistening
Like the tearful eye of an innocent maid,
Where hope still sits on the trenchant blade,
There were voices of joy in the peaceful wind, As the small birds were twittering each to his kind, 'Midst the tremulous hum of the myriad flies,
And the buz of the golden bee's deep horn;
And the odorous breathings of that fresh morn,
These were delights of high and solemn tone;
But dim as dreams of long-forgotten things,
Seem but the work of his imaginings.
With a persuasive and o’erpowering spell :
To the far river, did their spirits well
V. • Brother, the first beams of the day « Were wont to call us up to pray; • The birds are singing God's high praise, • The very flowers a breath do raise « Of incense to His holy power; • Brother, it is all nature's hour • Of orison.' And so they knelt them down
In the green temple of that sunny vale,
And bade their Lord and glorious Maker hail,
upon the springing moss, They look'd again upon that beauteous scene;
The mist had fled before their simple prayers: The brook, the trees, the flowers, were then, I ween, Clear written notes of what themselves had been, Haunts of their early faith, memorials of their cares.
Yet, since those brothers knelt upon that soil,
Or saw the pine-wood sleeping in the sun,
Ramparts of war and shrines of kingly fame,
But yet the hills and vallies look'd the same.
O vital Spirit of nature, thou alone
Givest a perdurable garment to this earth,
And thou sitt'st momently smiling at the birth
Leaves but the slime that marks the reptile’s way;
And the soft gales in their green mantles fold,
Mountains, below whose heads the winds are rollid, And seas, that heave with an undying tide, These are
' for all time,' uttering words of truth, Love, joy, and wisdom, in their ceaseless youth.
And yet they gazd :—they look'd upon that place
As lovers, meeting after tedious years,
That mantled once in eyes, undimm’d by tears.
Was unremember'd; the precipitous hill
Had lost its ancient pathways; and the rill Into a deeper bed of earth had sunk:They wonder’d, yet they spake not. There's a voice,
Not unfamiliar, on their silence breaking; • We come—we join you—let our souls rejoice
• Hark to the blest hymn of our brothers' waking:'
Sleep, forsake us; may the soul
· Gladden in its Maker's sight, • As the clouds, that o'er us roll,
Sparkle in the morning light.
• God of life, be Thou the
On to Truth's eternal source.'
THE SPRING SHOWER.
Away to that snug nook ; for the thick shower
AMIOT'S LETTERS FROM FRANCE.
Paris, Rue du Mont-Thabor, Ilth August.
I have such a heap of things to say that I don't know how to begin. Admirations, disquisitions, indignations, excusations, accusations, and absolutions, press for an utterance. You are well acquainted with my opinion of the inutility of attempting to describe, as that term is usually understood ; because it is in fact impracticable in execution, and would be quite superflous if it were not so. Galignani's guide book is very copious and well written, and you shall have the use of it. But there are some things, and those by far the most important to the minds of some persons, which a guide book does not, and cannot, take notice of; and those are the things, if I mistake not, which will most amuse you all ; I mean an account of my own adventures, my own notions, my own reflections. These, if not intrinsically valuable, are at least original.
We left Calais at ten by the market clock on Wednesday morning i and commend me to the cabriolet of the Calais Diligence for comfortable travelling in summer! It is simply a covered gig where our box is. The conducteur, or guard, sits with you ; you avoid sun and dust; at night a curtain is drawn across the front, and you may sleep just as if you were lolling inside a gentleman's carriage. There is nothing like it in an English coach. And then what a subject for inexhaustible divertisement is submitted to your attention in the postilion and his team! I had often heard of the French postilions and their horses; I knew they wore tails and jackboots, and were caparisoned (that is the horses were) with ropes; but the individual particulars convey no notion of the complex image. The fellow at Calais was a dandy, and his boots were not much more than twice the size of those of the Oxford Bluesand had been cleaned ; but as we left the coast, the tail descended, and the boot increased, and the Day and Martin was all my eye ; till, at about forty miles from Paris, the whole thing attained its legitimate acme, and I declare, positively, that a creature of five feet nothing, with legs and thighs like a forked radish, with
VOL. I. PART I.