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Man is ever warring, rushing

Onward through life's stormy way,
Wild his fervour, fierce and crushing,

Knows he neither rest nor stay :
Creating, slaying-day by day

Urged by paffion's fury brood,
A hydra band, whose heads, for aye,

Fall, to be for aye renewed.

But women, to sweet silent praises resigning
Such hopes as affection is ever enshrining,
Pluck the moment's brief flowers as they wander

along.
More free in their limited

range, Than man, proudly soaring with fruitless endeavour,

Through the infinite circles of science and song.

richer ever,

Strong and proud, and self-commending,

Man's cold heart doth rarely move,
To the gentler spirit bending,

To the god-like power of love ;
Knows not foul-exchange so tender,

Tears, by other's tears confessed ;
Life's dark combats steel and render

Harder his obdurate breast !

Oh, wakened like harp, and as gently resembling
Its murmuring chords to the night breezes trembling,

Breathes woman's fond soul, and as feelingly too. Touched lightly, touched deeply, for ever she borrows Grief itself from the image of grief, and her sorrows

Ever gem her soft eyes with Heaven's holiest dew.

Man, of power despotic lord,

In power doth insolently trust;
Scythia argues with the sword,

Persia, crouching, bites the duft.
In their fury fights engaging,

Combat spoilers wild and dread,
Strife, and war, and havoc raging,

Where the charities have fled.

But gently intreating, and sweetly beguiling,
Woman reigns while the graces around her are smil-

ing, Calming down the fierce discord of hatred and

pride; Teaching all whom the strife of wild passions would

sever, To unite in one bond, and with her, and for ever,

All hopes, each emotion, they else had denied.

SCHILLER.

XXVII.

THE SKYLARK.

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TAIL to thee, blythe Spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

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Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire

The blue deep thot wingest,
And singing still doft foar, and soaring ever fingert.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou doft float and run ;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight,
Like a star of Heaven

In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill de-

light

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud ; As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud, The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is

overflowed.

What thou art we know not,

What is most like thee;
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet

hidden In the light of thought ; Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought To fympathy with hopes and fears it heeded

not.

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue Amid the flowers and grass that screen it from the view.

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much scent these heavy-

winged thieves,

Sound of vernal showers

On the awakened grass,
Rain awakened flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth sur-

pass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet notes are thine ;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine,
That panted forth a flood of rapture fo divine.

Chorus Hymeneal,

Or triumphant chant,
Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden

want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strains ;
What fields, or waves, or mountains,

What shapes of sky or plains ;
What love of thy own kind, what ignorance of

pain ?

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