"
--_Milton_.--_Sonnet on his Blindness_.
13. Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,--
What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin-pie?
--_Whittier_.
14. That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
--_Shelley.--The Cloud_.
15. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
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