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THE ANGLER.

And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of spring.

Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine,
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,

The gloom of alder-boughs;

And in the midst, a richer hue,

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead:

Yet through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave,
At noon, his panting breast;
'Tis not the bittern by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is filled with summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis death!

THE CHANGED HOME.

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learned to read the words of love
That shine o'er nature's page;

If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour,
By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;

And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

HEMANS.

THE CHANGED HOME.

I LEFT my home;-'twas in a little vale,
Sheltered from snow-storms by the stately pines;
A small clear river wandered quietly,

Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks

Of fishers, and but darkened by the shade
The willows flung, when to the southern wind
They threw their long green tresses. On the slope

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84

THE CHANGED HOME.

Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs
Reached not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs
Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom.
Sweet silence reigned around :-no other sound
Came on the air, than when the shepherd made
The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes

From the wild birds, or children in their play
Sending forth shouts or laughter. Strangers came
Rarely or never near the lonely place.

I went into far countries. Years past by,
But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt
Within my memory. Home I came at last.
I stood upon a mountain height, and looked
Into the vale below; and smoke arose,

And heavy sounds; and thro' the thick dim air
Shot blackened turrets, and brick walls, and roofs
Of the red tile. I entered in the streets:
There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro;
And masted vessels stood upon the river,

And barges sullied the once dew-clear stream.
Where were the willows, where the cottages?
I sought my home; I sought and found a city,—
Alas! for the green valley!

LANDON.

A SUMMER DAY.

85

A SUMMER DAY.

WHAN that the misty vapor was agone,
And cleare and faire was the morning,
The dewe also like silver in shining
Upon the leaves, as any baume swete,
Till firy Titan with his persant hete

Had dried up the lusty licour new
Upon the herbes in the grene mede,
And that the floures of many divers hew,
Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede,

And for to splay out her leves in brede

Againe the Sunne, gold burned in his sphere, That doune to hem cast his beames clere.

And by a river forth I gan costay,
Of water clere as birell or cristall,
Till at the last, I found a little way
Toward a parke, enclosed with a wall
In compace rounde, and by a gate small
Who so that would might freely gone
Into this parke, walled with grene stone.

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A SUMMER DAY.

And in I went to heare the birdes song,

Which on the braunches, both in plaine and vale,
So loud sang that all the wood rong,
Like as it should shiver in peeces smale,
And, as methought, that the nightingale
With so great might her voice gan out wrest,
Right as her herte for love would brest.

The soile was plaine, smoth, and wonder soft,
All oversprad with tapettes that Nature
Had made her selfe: covered eke aloft
With bowes greene the floures for to cure,
That in hir beauty they may long endure
From all assaut of Phebus fervent fere,
Which in his sphere so hote shone and clere.

The aire attempre, and the smothe wind

Of Zepherus, among the blossoms white,
So holesome was, and so nourishing by kind,
That smale buddes and round blossoms lite

In manner gan of hir brethe delite,
To yeve us hope there fruite shall take
Ayenst autumne redy for to shake.