Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies reveal'd,—

Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,

Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old

no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE HUMBLE-BEE,

BURLY, dozing humble-bee,

Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek ;-
I will follow thee alone,

Thou animated torrid zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,

Let me chase thy waving lines:
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere,
Swimmer through the waves of air,
Voyager of light and noon,
Epicurean of June,

Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,-
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall;

And, with softness touching all
Tints the human countenance
With the color of romance;
And infusing subtle heats
Turns the sod to violets,-

Thou in sunny solitudes,

Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow breezy bass.

Hot Midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets, and bilberry bells,

Maple sap, and daffodils,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catch-fly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he pass’d.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breech'd philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat.

When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE IVY GREEN.

OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim Death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decay'd,
And nations have scatter'd been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.