Even thus, methinks, a city reared should be,
Yea, an imperial city, that might hold
Five times a hundred noble towns in fee,
And either with their might of Babel old,
Or the rich Roman pomp of empery
Might stand compare, highest in arts enroll'd,
Highest in arms; brave tenement for the free,
Who never crouch to thrones, or sin for gold.
Thus should her towers be raised—with vicinage
Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets,
As if to vindicate, 'mid choicest seats
Of art, abiding Nature's majesty,

Lift me, Lord Jesus, for the time is nigh
When I must climb unto thy cross at last;
The world fades out, its lengthening shadows fly,
Earth's pomp is passing and the music past;
Phantoms flock round me, multiplying fast;
Nothing seems tangible; the good I thought
Most permanent hath perished. Come away,
O sated spirit, from the vacant scene;
The curtain drops upon the spun-out play,
The benches are deserted. Let us go,
Forget the foolish clown, the king, the queen,
The idle story with its love and woe;
I seem to stand before a minster screen

While the priest said " perpetua luceat , "
Sprinkling the palms that graced a maiden's bier,
I felt a light stream in upon my soul;
And one that near me in the chancel sate,
Who was to the departed soul most dear,
Saw the same light, as my hand softly stole
To hers, and suddenly a glory played
Around those palms that seemed to check my breath;
Even as he prayed for light the darkness fled
To both of us: I looked into her eyes,
And saw through tears a raptured look that said —
A strength new-born doth in my spirit rise,

I.

Imperial City! I have dreamed of thee
Through long — long years, — since when in early prime,
I traced, with heart deep stirred, thy history
Of men heroic, and of deeds sublime:
Thy storied names, which on the scroll of time,
But gather brightness with the flight of years;
Or — if all stained with tyranny and crime,
With blood of slaughtered innocence and tears
Of bitter agony — but blacker grow,
As grows the detestation of mankind;
Around thy Tiber, have availed to throw,
And o'er thy hills, where sits decay enshrined,

Unless in thought with thee I often live,
Angelic doctor! life seems poor to me.
What are these bounties, if they only be
Such boon as farmers to their servants give?
That I am fed, and that mine oxen thrive,
That my lambs fatten, that mine hours are free —
These ask my nightly thanks on bended knee;
And I do thank Him who hath blest my hive,
And made content my herd, my flock, my bee.
But, Father! nobler things I ask from Thee.
Fishes have sunshine, worms have everything!
Are we but apes? Oh! give me, God, to know

I.

Stern, solemn, grand, far up the dark blue heaven,
Thou old grey cliff, thou heav'st thine awful form!
On the wide waste of years a beacon given,
Lonely and bare, and scarred by time and storm;
Hard at thy base, where all day shadows sleep,
Spreads the wide grotto, overarching high;
Adown its mossy sides the cold tears weep,
And in its lap the crystal waters lie,
In sweet repose, as if there ventured nigh
This still retreat, no rude disturbing power;
No sound to pain the ear, no sight the eye;

I.

Wondrous Enchanter! at that touch of thine,
The cold dead marble warms, and lives, and wakes;
The shape thy thought would give, it plastic takes,
Rises and stands in symmetry divine:
That Indian Maid seems but to wait thy call,
To break the spell of silence, and in speech,
With those just parting lips our souls to teach
Truths pure as crystal drops on flowers let fall.
For not alone the outline soft as air,
With each material grace that charms the sight,
Thou fashionest, but settest also there

I.

We rode, in genial mood, a friendly band,
Where climbed a winding path o'er many a steep,
And caught, from height to height, on either hand,
Visions of beauty in the valleys deep;
There gentle Hoosic holds his peaceful way,
With meadow banks of green, and trees o'erhung;
There are sweet pastures where the blithe lambs play
And sober herds repose; fields where is sung
The reaper's troll as o'er his arm is flung
The ripened grain that for the sheaf he binds:
There gleams the village spire, and deep among

I lay within a little bowered nook,
With all green leaves, nothing but green around me,
And through their delicate comminglings flashed
The broken light of a sunned waterfall —
Ah, water of such freshness, that it was
A marvel and an envy! There I lay,
And felt the joy of life for many an hour.
But when the revel of sensations
Gave place to meditation and discourse,
I waywardly began to moralize
That little theatre with its watery scene
Into quaint semblances of higher things.
And first methought that twined foliage

She sits upon the mountain side,
The herd is grazing by;
At hand soft murmuring waters glide,
Around cool shadows lie.

Beside her on the grass are laid
The well adjusted straws,
With which to weave the tasteful braid,
That o'er her knee she draws.

Upon her nut-brown cheek there glows
Of health the blushing hue;
Her eyes, like dew-drops on the rose,
Are pearly, soft and blue.

All blithe and happy is her air,
Throughout the live-long day;
As to her breast corroding care
Hath never found its way.