They haunt me in the stillness and the glare Of desert noontide when the horizon's line Swims faintly throbbing, and my shadow hides Skulking beneath me from the brassy sky.

The moon was sunken low in the dim west, Curled upwards on the steep horizon's brink, A leaf of glory falling to its rest.

When now the third revolving moon appears, With sharpened horns, above the horizon's brink; Without Lucina's aid, expect thy hopes Are amply crowned; short pangs produce to light The smoking litter; crawling, helpless, blind, Nature their guide, they seek the pouting teat That plenteous streams.

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim See where they circle, and dip and fly, The grey free-lances of wind and sky, To the far horizon's rim.

The fire upon his altars may burn dim, The torch he lighted may in darkness fail, And nothing to rekindle it avail, Yet high beyond his dull horizon's rim, Arcturus and the Pleiads beckon him.

As before, the shadow of Harney crept out to the horizon's edge.

But that my SOVEREIGN here, from crowds withdrawn, May meet calm peace upon the twilight lawn; That here, among these gray, primaeval trees, He may inhale health's animating breeze; And when from this proud terrace he surveys Slow Thames devolving his majestic maze, (Now lost on the horizon's verge, now seen Winding through lawns, and woods, and pastures green,)

Th' horizon's ring, that clasps the dreary view, Lays mistily upon the gray Atlantic's breast.

Behind them, growing lesser and lesser minute by minute, merging into the infinite white, were three black dots like tiny boats on the horizon's edge.

When half the horizon's clouded and half free, Fluttering between the dim wave and the sky Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity.

Look out, beyond, and see The far horizon's beckoning span!

What nations in thy wide horizon's span Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man!

The fresh pure sky answers to it; every cloud has vanished, save one or two which linger near the horizon, pardoned offenders, seeming far too innocent for mischief, although their dark and sullen brothers, banished ignominiously below the horizon's verge, may be plotting nameless treachery there.

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country!on the horizon's brink

Sometimes we can first sight the headland On the distant horizon's rim; We enter the dangerous waters With our vessels taut and trim; But often the cape in its grimness Will before us suddenly rise, Because of the clouds that have hid it Or the blinding sun in our eyes.

Along the eastern horizon's rim loomed the blue sea beyond the sandy dunes of old Plum Island; the lazy river born in babbling brooks and bubbling springs flowing languidly mid wooded islands, and picturesque stacks of salt hay, representing the arduous toil of farmers and dry-as-dust fodder for reluctant cows.

Among the mountains I am ill at ease, Missing the stretched horizon's level line And the illimitable restless blue.

"When the blue horizon's hoop Me a little pinches here, On the instant I will die And go find thee in the sphere.

Just before the orb finally disappeared, its slant rays streamed through some dark purple bars on the horizon's verge, and for an instant tinged the opposite distant mountains with strange supernatural hues.

But now, like one who rows, Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 370 The horizon's utmost boundary; far above Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin pinnace; lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 375 Went heaving through the water like a swan; When, from behind that craggy steep till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, As if with voluntary power instinct Upreared its head.

[Footnote f: The "craggy steep till then the horizon's bound," is probably the ridge of Ironkeld, reaching from high Arnside to the Tom Heights above Tarn

Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play, As bore the surge The poet's wasted form with slow and mournful dirge.

Prayer, that, when my day is done, And I see its setting sun, Shorn and beamless, cold and dim, Sink beneath the horizon's rim, When this ball of rock and clay Crumbles from my feet away, And the solid shores of sense Melt into the vague immense, Father!

Wanderlust THE highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all, And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call; Only the call of the long, white road to the far horizon's wall.