Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest; Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, THE ECHOING GREEN. And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more. Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 883 William Cullen Bryant. THE ECHOING GREEN. THE sun does arise, And make happy the skies: The merry bells ring To make happy the spring: Sing louder around To the bell's cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green. Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk; Such, such were the joys, Till the little ones, weary, The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers, Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, And sport no more seen, On the darkening green. William Blake. ODE TO EVENING. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs and dying gales O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed. Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat ODE TO EVENING. As oft he rises midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial, loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows 85 And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires; Thy dewy fingers draw While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favorite name! William Collins. DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. Down the sultry arc of day The burning wheels have urged their way; The barn is still, the master's gone, |