Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850. 1207.-THE DAFFODILS. I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced, but they 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, Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850. 1208.-TO THE DAISY. With little here to do or see For thou art worthy, Oft on the dappled turf at ease 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, While I am gazing. A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubics drest; A little Cyclops, with one eye The shape will vanish, and behold! I see thee glittering from afar- In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Who shall reprove thee! Sweet flower! for by that name at last I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850. 1209.-BY THE SEA. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 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 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 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, The budding twigs spread out their fan If this belief from heaven be sent, Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850. 1212. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. We walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said "The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, And on that morning, through the grass "Our work," said I, "was well begun; A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain-top, "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft A day like this, which I have left And just above yon slope of corn With rod and line I sued the sport And coming to the church stopp'd short Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang :-she would have been Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And turning from her grave, I met A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet A basket on her head she bare; No fountain from its rocky cave There came from me a sigh of pain I look'd at her, and look'd again: -Matthew is in his grave, yet now 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 Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. II. Who, at this untimely hour, Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, III. Alas! the setting sun Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named, She wanders o'er the desert sands A wretched widow now, The fruitful mother of so fair a race; She wanders o'er the wilderness. IV. No tear relieved the burden of her heart; At length, collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes The Lord our God is good!" 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. quench'd, Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth And to the Virgin Mother silently Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843. 1215.-THE HOLLY TREE. Oh, Reader! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well perceives Order'd by an Intelligence so wise, Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle through their prickly round 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 in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 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: He knew how vain it was to lift an eye To that hard face. Yet he was always found 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. All others are but vanity. 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 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, 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, 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 1219.-AFTER BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, 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." |