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ing of birds, as we learn in both his prose and verse, enraptured him." In his poem "An Indian-Summer Reverie," in which his love of nature is most fully set forth, we find the following exquisite lines:

"Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink,
Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops

Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink,
And twixt the windrows most demurely drops."

8. This line illustrates Lowell's deep religious nature. The whole poem, indeed, is suffused with religious feeling. Though discarding something of the creed of his ancestry, he had a strong faith in the presence and love of God.

"Through ways unlooked for and through many lands,

Far from the rich folds built with human hands,

The gracious footprints of his love I see."

9. Lowell was fond of the dandelion, which gives name to one of his finest poems: —

"Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold."

10. Not unlike the musing organist, the poet has been letting his fingers wander as they list. But in these two lines his theme has at length drawn

near.

II. Note the solecism in the use of "he."

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12. This Prelude describes winter, which was a favorite season with Lowell. In "An Indian-Summer Reverie," there are beautiful descriptions of winter scenes. And in his essay, A Good Word for Winter," we have a delightful presentation of its varied charms. "For my part," he says, "I think Winter a pretty wide-awake old boy, and his bluff sincerity and hearty ways are more congenial to my mood, and more wholesome for me, than any charms of which his rivals are capable."

13. In a letter written in December, 1848, Lowell refers to "the little brook : " "Last night I walked to Watertown over the snow, with the new moon before me, and a sky exactly like that in Page's evening landscape. Orion was rising behind me; and, as I stood on the hill just before you enter the village, the stillness of the fields around me was delicious, broken only by the tinkle of a little brook which runs too swiftly for Frost to catch it. My picture of the brook in 'Sir Launfal' was drawn from it."

14. This stanza exemplifies a fine employment of the fancy. Its separate pictures should be clearly brought before the mind. Explain "crypt,” “relief," and "arabesques."

15. Corbel = a short piece of timber or other material jutting out in a wall as a shoulder-piece,

=

16. Yule-log Christmas-log; that is, the large log burned in the fireplace on Christmas Eve. The custom descended from heathen times. From Swedish and Danish jul, Christmas.

17. Beautiful Gate is apparently a reference to Acts iii. 2, and Josephus ("The Jewish War," Book V., chap. v., 3), where a magnificent column, fifty cubits in height, is described in connection with a gate supposed by some to be the "gate Beautiful" of Scripture.

18. This lesson of human sympathy and love is one that Lowell frequently enforces. In "A Parable,” Christ is made to say to the chief priests and rulers and kings:

-

"Have ye founded your thrones and altars, then,

On the bodies and souls of living men?

And think ye that building shall endure,

Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor?"

19. In his "My Garden Acquaintances," Lowell devotes a delightful paragraph to the oriole, or hangbird, mentioning especially its nest in the elm.

XV.

SELECTIONS FROM WHITTIER.

MEMORIES.

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,
With step as light as summer air,
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair,

A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring

When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, And stainless in its holy white,

Unfolding like a morning flower: ' A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute, From eye and lip in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening chain
Of memory, at the thought of thee!
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams, come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;

I feel its glow upon my cheek,

Its fulness of the heart is mine,

As when I leaned to hear thee speak,

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes,

With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,

Of moonlit wave and willowy way, Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,

And smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When, half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee;
I too can smile, when o'er that hour

The lights of memory backward stream,
Yet feel the while that manhood's power
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.

Years have passed on, and left their trace,
Of graver care and deeper thought;

And unto me the calm, cold face

Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought.

More wide, perchance, for blame than praise,

The school-boy's humble name has flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways

Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed

Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed,2 While answers to my spirit's need

The Derby dalesman's simple truth.3 For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day and solemn psalm ; For me, the silent reverence where

My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time hath worn not out,
And something of myself in thee,
A shadow from the past, I see,

Lingering, even yet, thy way about;
Not wholly can the heart unlearn

That lesson of its better hours,

Not yet hath Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eyes
The shadows melt, and fall apart,
And, smiling through them, round us lies
The warm light of our morning skies,
The Indian Summer of the heart!

In secret sympathies of mind,

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain!

THE SHIP-BUILDERS.

THE sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,

The ship's white timbers show.

Then let the sounds of measured stroke

And grating saw begin;

The broad-axe to the gnarlèd oak,

The mallet to the pin!

Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy' jars,

And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,

Are fading with the stars.

All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge;

All day for us his heavy hand

The groaning anvil scourge.2

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