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 listen'd till I had my fill;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1207.-THE DAFFODILS.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee
A Poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company!

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1208.-TO THE DAISY.

With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee

For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising;

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubics drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar-
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet flower! for by that name at last
When all my reveries are past

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent Creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1209.-BY THE SEA.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walk'st with me here,

If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1210. TO SLEEP.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and

seas,

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ;

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:

So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ?

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1211.-WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
Their thoughts I cannot measure-
But the least motion which they made
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What Man has made of Man ?

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1212. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

We walk'd along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said "The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass
And by the steaming rills,
We travell'd merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun;
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky that April morn
Of this the very brother.

With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,

And coming to the church stopp'd short
Beside my daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang :-she would have been
A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more-
For so it seem'd,-than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

And turning from her grave, I met
Beside the churchyard yew

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!

No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
She seem'd as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;

I look'd at her, and look'd again:
And did not wish her mine!"

-Matthew is in his grave, yet now
Methinks I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1213-THE WIDOWED MOTHER.

I.

How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven :

In full-orb'd glory, yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

II.

Who, at this untimely hour,
Wanders o'er the desert sands?
No station is in view,

Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste.
The mother and her child,

The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy,
They, at this untimely hour,
Wander o'er the desert sands.

III.

Alas! the setting sun
Saw Zeinab in her bliss,
Hodeirah's wife beloved,
The fruitful mother late,

Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named,
They wish'd their lot like hers:

She wanders o'er the desert sands

A wretched widow now,

The fruitful mother of so fair a race;
With only one preserved,

She wanders o'er the wilderness.

IV.

No tear relieved the burden of her heart;
Stunn'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one
Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood.
But sometimes, when the boy
Would wet her hand with tears,
And, looking up to her fix'd countenance,
Sob out the name of Mother, then did she
Utter a feeble groan.

At length, collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes
To Heaven, exclaiming, "Praised be the Lord!
He gave, He takes away!

The Lord our God is good!"
Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1214.-A MOONLIGHT SCENE.

How calmly, gliding through the dark blue sky,

The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,

Through thinly-scatter'd leaves, and boughs grotesque,

Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope; Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray And massy, motionless they spread; here shine

Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night

Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry

Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh! how awfully,
Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The summits of Auseva rise serene!
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars,
Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh

quench'd,

Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence
Towards eternity the attemper'd mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he
stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently
Breathes forth her hymn of praise.

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1215.-THE HOLLY TREE.

Oh, Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree ?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Order'd by an Intelligence so wise,
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves

appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree
Can emblems see,

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,

One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might

appear

Harsh and austere ;

To those, who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude ;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

1216.-THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. This man of half a million

Had all these public virtues which you praise:
But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar, at the public gate,
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in
hand,

He knew how vain it was to lift an eye

To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world,-donations to keep open
A running charity account with Heaven,-
Retaining fees against the Last Assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-
Lawyer

Plead his own cause as plaintiff.

He, in a close and dusky counting-house, Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his heart.

So, from the way in which he was train'd up, His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd, Poor muckworm! through his three-score years and ten,

And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him,

If that which served him for a soul were still Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1217.-LOVE.

They sin who tell us Love can die.
With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell;
Earthly, these passions are of earth,
They perish where they have their birth:
But Love is indestructible.
Its holy flame for ever burneth ;
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:

It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of Love is there. Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1218. THE MISER'S MANSION. Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled side

Shakes as about to fall at every blast; Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride,

But now the monument of grandeur past.

Fallen fabric! pondering o'er thy time-traced walls,

Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state; Each object to the musing mind recalls The sad vicissitudes of varying fate.

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts;

Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toad

sports.

Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl,

Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat.

"Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told
His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;
Who loved to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,
And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant Heaven bestow'd The golden heaps to render thousands blest; Smooth aged penury's laborious road,

And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.

For, like the serpent of romance, he lay

Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;

With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day,

With causeless fears he agonized by night.

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil

Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil, With all his riches, was Avaro blest?

Rose he, like you, at morn, devoid of fear,
His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?
Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?

Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul, What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave ?

What boots thy wealth above the world's control,

If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls,
Nor longer echoed to the song of mirth;
The hand of art ne more adorn'd thy walls,
Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;

Nor, when the accustom'd guest draws near the door,

Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone,

In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,

Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall..

For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,

And time, on restless pinion, hurried by; Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,

And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye
Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,
And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,
And muse how man himself creates his
doom.

1219.-AFTER BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found He came to ask what he had found; That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he; "Who fell in the great victory."