sky;

Wordsworth.--Born 1770, Died 1850.

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and A village schoolmaster was he, seas,

With hair of glittering gray; Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday. I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie

And on that morning, through the grass Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies

And by the steaming rills, Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,

We travell’d merrily, to pass And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

A day among the hills. Even thus last night, and two nights more I

“Our work," said I, “ was well begun; lay

Then, from thy breast what thought, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any

Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought ? " stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away:

A second time did Matthew stop;
Without Thee what is all the morning's And fixing still his eye
wealth ?

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
Come, blessèd barrier between day and day, To me he made reply:
Dear mother of fresh thonghts and joyous
health!

“Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind
Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

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 1211.-WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

Of this the very brother. I heard a thousand blended notes

With rod and line I sued the sport While in a grove I sat reclined,

Which that sweet season gave, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

And coming to the church stopp'd short Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

Beside my daughter's grave.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale; And much it grieved my heart to think

And then she sang :- she would have been What Man has made of Man.

A very nightingale. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

Six feet in earth my Emma lay; The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;

And yet I loved her moreAnd 'tis my faith that every flower

For so it seem'd, -than till that day Enjoys the air it breathes.

I e'er had loved before. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,

And turning from her grave, I met Their thoughts I cannot measure

Beside the churchyard yew But the least motion which they made

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

With points of morning dew. The budding twigs spread out their fan

A basket on her head she bare ; To catch the breezy air;

Her brow was smooth and white : And I must think, do all I can,

To see a child so very fair, That there was pleasure there.

It was a pure delight! If this belief from heaven be sent,

No fountain from its rocky cave If such be Nature's holy plan,

E’er tripp'd with foot so free; Have I not reason to lament

She seem'd as happy as a wave
What Man has made of Man ?

That dances on the sea.
Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

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!"
1212.—THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. -Matthew is in his grave, yet now
We walk'd along, while bright and red

Methinks I see him stand, Uprose the morning sun;

As at that moment, with a bough And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said

Of wilding in his hand. “The will of God be done !"

1213.—THE WIDOWED MOTHER. Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope ;

Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray I.

And massy, motionless they spread; here

shine How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

Upon the crags, deepening with blacker

night No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor

Their chasms; and there the glittering argenstain, Breaks the serene of heaven :

try In full-orb'd glory, yonder moon divine

Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. Rolls through the dark-blue depths.

A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Beneath her steady ray

Rests on the hills; and oh! how awfully,

Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The desert-circle spreads,

The summits of Auseva rise serene !
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

The watchman on the battlements partakes How beautiful is night!

The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels

The silence of the earth; the endless sound II.

Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars, Who, at this untimely hour,

Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh Wanders o'er the desert sands?

quench’d, No station is in view,

Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
The mother and her child,

Draw on with elevating influence
The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, Towards eternity the attemper'd mind.
They, at this untimely hour,

Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he
Wander O'er the desert sands.

stands,

And to the Virgin Mother silently
III.

Breathes forth her hymn of praise.
Alas! the setting sun

Robert Southey.--Born 1774, Died 1843.
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

1215.—THE HOLLY TREE.
A wretched widow now,
The fruitful mother of so fair a race; Oh, Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
With only one preserved,

The Holly Tree ?
She wanders o'er the wilderness.

The eye that contemplates it well perceives

Its glossy leaves,
IV.

Order'd by an Intelligence so wise,
No tear relieved the burden of her heart; As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.
Stunn'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one
Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
But sometimes, when the boy

Wrinkled and keen;
Would wet her hand with tears,

No grazing cattle through their prickly round And, looking up to her fix'd countenance,

Can reach to wound; Sob out the name of Mother, then did she But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Utter a feeble groan.

Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves At length, collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes

appear. To Heaven, exclaiming, “Praised be the Lord ! He gave, He takes away!

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
The Lord our God is good ! "

And moralize ;
Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

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. 1214.-A MOONLIGHT SCENE.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might How calmly, gliding through the dark blue

appear sky,

Harsh and austere; The midnight moon ascends! Her placid To those, who on my leisure would intrude, beams,

Reserved and rude ;Through thinly-scatter'd leaves, and boughs Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, grotesque,

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I He, in a close and dusky counting-house, know,

Smoke-dried, and sear’d, and shrivell’d up his Some harshness show,

heart. All vain asperities I day by day

So, from the way in which he was train'd up, Would wear away,

His feet departed not; he toild and moila, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Poor muckworm ! through his three-score Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

years and ten,

And when the earth shall now be shovell’d on And as when all the summer trees are seen

him, So bright and green,

If that which served him for a soul were still The Holly leaves a sober hue display

Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. Less bright than they ; But, when the bare and wintry woods we

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843. see, What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree ? So serions should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng;

1217.-LOVE. So would I seem amid the young and gay They sin who tell us Love can die. More grave than they ;

With life all other passions fly, That in my age as cheerful I might be

All others are but vanity.
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.

In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Robert Southey.--Born 1774, Died 1843. 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 ; 1216.—THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
This man of half a million

At times deceived, at times opprest,
Had all these public virtues which you praise :

It here is tried and purified, But the poor man rung never at his door;

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest: And the old beggar, at the public gate,

It soweth here with toil and care, Who, all the summer long, stands hat in But the harvest time of Love is there. hand,

Robert Southey.—Born 1774, Died 1843. 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

1218.—THE MISER'S MANSION. In the other world,—donations to keep open A running charity account with Heaven,

Thou mouldering mansion, whose embattled Retaining fees against the Last Assizes,

side When, for the trusted talents, strict account

Shakes as about to fall at every blast; Shall be required from all, and the old Arch

Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and Lawyer

pride, Plead his own cause as plaintiff.

But now the monument of grandeur past. Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose

Fallen fabric! pondering o'er thy time-traced heart

walls, Love had no place, nor natural charity ?

Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state; The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step,

Each object to the musing mind recalls Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside

The sad vicissitudes of varying fate. . With creeping pace; she never raised her

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, eyes

The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious To woo kind words from him, nor laid her

courts; head

Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine.

Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toad How could it be but thus ? Arithmetic

sports. Was the sole science he was ever taught; The multiplication-table was his Creed, Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue.

The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; When yet he was a boy, and should have | And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests breathed

howl, The open air and sunshine of the fields,

Screams as the wild winds shake her secret To give his blood its natural spring and play, seat.

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