painter, the harmony is inimitably perfect. It is natural to suppose every part of the Universe equally perfect; and it is a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars of heaven are moving on continually to music; and that the sounds we daily listen to are but parts of a melody that reaches to the very center of God's illimitable spheres.

II. Pastoral Poetry

Pastoral poetry (from the Latin word pastor, a shepherd) is that form of poetry dealing with shepherd or rustic life. Some of the writers of pastoral poetry were Theocritus among the Greeks, and Virgil among the Latins.

THE SOLITARY REAPER

William Wordsworth.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending:-
I listened, motionless and still;
And as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

III. Descriptive Poetry

Poetic literature is the record of human experience in rhythmic form. Descriptive poetry is that form of poetry which describes scenes or objects. It is ideal word painting. The descriptive poem should be rendered directly to the audience.

THE CLOSING SCENE

T. Buchanan Read.

Within the sober realms of the leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper in the hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low,

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed

His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight;

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; And like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew

Crew twice and all was stiller than before;

Silent, till some replying warder blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the hay within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young,
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,

By every light wind like a censer swung.

Where sung the noisy martins of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year.

Where every bird that walked the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reaper of the rosy East;

All now was sunless, empty and forlorn.

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail;

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom; Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo in the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night,

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flower,

Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid this-in this most dreary air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with its inverted torch;

Amid all this-the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow-he had walked with her,
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir

Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all,
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the sword to rust upon the wall.

Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the dropping wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed,
Life dropped the distaff through her hands serene,
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,

While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky, their giant branches tossed,

And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted came,Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared;-this was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high; and the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found,-freedom to worship God!