English

Far o'er the sea, my greetings! speed your flight
Like storm-birds! On the Alleghanies light,
Whence, nestling in the vale, ye may behold
The house that doth mine own true love enfold.

The good old planter's house, so spruce and clean,
Before whose door, upon a bank of green,
Together once we sate, I braiding there
A wreath of wild-wood flowers to deck her hair.

On the old patriarch's lap her head was laid,
Whose silver hair upon her ringlets played,
As if upon a grain-field's waving gold

All hail to thee, Ohio, lovely stream,
That sweepest, murmuring, by, in holy dream,
New cities with their market-din profane,
Colossal rocks and fields of golden grain!

Emblem of Time, here drifts along on thee,
Uprooted by the storm, the giant tree,
The steamer's floating palace there we view,
And yonder skims the red man's birch canoe!

Here heardest thou the Briton's haggling word,
There the poor, errant Indian's moan was heard,
Thou listenest now the German's heartfelt song,

Before Pompeii's coast in skies of amber,
A ship, of build majestic, rides the bay;
Up mast and shroud the busy sailors clamber,
And man the yards, the anchor soon to weigh.

Once on the Mississippi's banks did glisten,
In living green, those naked spars that float,
Pictured on blue Tyrrhenian waves; — yet listen!
Still from their peak the gay bird pours his note.

Outside, above the stern, see, sculptured, shining,
As patron saint, a Roman Hero stand,
A golden laurel wreath his head entwining,

The dweller on Ullswater's grander shore,
Or Keswick's, would deny thee any claim
Even to bear a lakelet's borrow'd name,
Of thy small urn so scanty seems the store
And such would doubtless scout the poet's lore,
Who one poor sonnet should presume to frame
In celebration of thy humble fame,
Although to theirs he could award no more.
Yet all the pomp and plenitude of space
They boast, can but reflect the wider scene
Of beauty round; as lovely is the sheen
Of thy clear mirror, in which now I trace

Fair Earth, thou surely wert not meant to be
Time's show-room; but the glorious vestibule
Of scenes that stretch beyond his sway and rule,
Or that of aught we now can hear or see.
For he who most intently looks at thee,
Must be a novice e'en in Nature's school —
In one far higher a more hopeless fool,
To go no further with her master-key!
Beautiful as thou art, thou art no more
Than a faint shadow or a glimmering ray
Of beauty, glory, ne'er to pass away;
Nor thankless is thy minstrel, at three-score,

BURSTAL, IN THENFOUR SEASONS.

How sweet it were, methinks, to sojourn here
And watch the seasons in their changeful flight:
To see the Spring bedeck with wild-flowers bright
The valley and those swelling uplands near;
To mark the Summer in her blithe career
Bursting in full luxuriance on the sight
And matron Autumn re-assert her right
To crown with harvest-boons the circling year.

" EARTH has not anything to show more fair. "
So Wordsworth sang what time he made his theme
The bridge that arches Westminster's proud stream;
Yet had he seen this lovely valley wear
The lingering brightness day hath yet to spare,
Each lengthening shadow and each sunny gleam,
Silent in all their changes as a dream,
He might have doubted which the palm should bear.
And now calm evening draws her curtain grey
Over the melting twilight's mellower flush;
But for the brightly glowing roseate blush

There are among the leafy monarchs round,
Trees loftier far than you, of ampler size,
And likelier to attract a stranger's eyes,
With sylvan honours more superbly crown'd.
And yet in you a higher charm is found
And purer — to our sweetest sympathies,
Than all that Nature's lavish hand supplies
To others, growing on this fairy ground.
Ye are mementos of a wedded pair,
Once wont this loved familiar scene to tread —
Death, which has lowly laid one honour'd head,
Has but conferr'd on you an added share

It were, methinks, no very daring flight
Unto a poet's fond imagination,
To make this tent a prouder habitation;
Where Nature's worshipper and votary might,
With each appropriate and simple rite,
Bow to her charms, in quiet adoration
Of Him who meant his visible creation
Should minister to more than outward sight.
O then this tent-like seat might well become
A temple — more befitting prayer or praise
Than the mere listless loiterer's idle gaze;
And if it struck the sordid worldling dumb,

It was a happy thought, upon the brow
Of this slight eminence, abrupt and sheer,
This artless seat and straw-thatch'd roof to rear;
Where one may watch the labourer at his plough;
Or hear well-pleased, as I am listening now,
The song of wild birds falling on the ear,
Blended with hum of bees, or, sound more drear,
The solemn murmur of the wind-swept bough
Tent-like the fabric — in its centre stands
The sturdy oak, that spreads his boughs on high
Above the roof: while to the unsated eye