Then talk not of a fane, save one

Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun,

And all the stars of heaven.

Its walls are the cerulean sky,

Its floor the earth so green and fair,

The dome is vast immensity—

All nature worships there!

DAVID VEDDER, 1790-1854.

G อน

TO THE CUCKOO

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visits o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN, 1748–1788.

THE THINGS OF HEAVEN ARE SURE.

THE things of heaven are safe and sure;
The things of earth, though bright they be,
Will fade and perish speedily.

The things of heaven, of heavenly birth,
Unchanged, eternal, shall remain,
While the most steadfast things of earth
Are all unstable, trembling, vain,—
The sport of mutability.—

The things of earth, though fair they be,
Will fade and perish speedily.

The things we see above are bright,
Pure, spiritual, and beautiful;
While all below is dark as night,—

Unintellectual,—selfish,—dull.

I know not what the senses see

To wean us from eternity,
To scenes that fade so speedily.

The spirit has its natural seat

In the celestial heights above;

Earth is its prison,-its retreat,

Where, lost in mists, 'tis wont to rove;

Feeble, and dim, and tremblingly,

Man wanders on, as vexed to be

Midst things of earth that fade and flee.

The things of earth are like a river,—

A summer river,—swiftly dry;
The things above endure for ever,
Their ocean is immensity.

There streams of joy that ne'er shall be

Exhausted, roll eternally,

And thither let our spirits flee.

SIR JOHN BOWRING, 1792—

-Spanish of De Proaza.

WORSHIP IN THE WOODLANDS.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of Love.
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,
As where the noontide beam,
Flash'd from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ;

Or when, reclining on the cliff's huge height,
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

M

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature's charms my eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Will with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will
steal,

Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the woodlands bend my way,

And meet Religion there!

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to

pray,

Where storied windows dim the doubtful day : At liberty she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the

Night

Pours in the North her silver streams of light,

She woos reflection in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.