THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree
bough,

And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow :
I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!

WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverent watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline-
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook—-
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every
nook

Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

The Wild
Duck's Nest

Izaak

Walton

To the Poet, BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made John Dyer That work a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy child-
hood strayed,

Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,"
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled;
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

;

"Peter Bell" A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell
Not negligent the style; the matter?-good
As aught that song records of Robin Hood;
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;
But some (who brook those hackneyed themes
full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.

Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,
Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care-a comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love-a charmer's voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flows

From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
The throbbing pulse-else troubled without end:
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously to soothe her aching breast;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

-www

EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere
Of occupation, not by fashion led,

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust
o'erspread;

My nerves from no such murmur shrink, tho'near,
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,
When twilight shades darken the mountain's head:
Even she who toils to spin our vital thread
Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear
To household virtues. Venerable Art,
Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect
Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,
Trusting to crowded factory and mart
And proud discoveries of the intellect,
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.

The Spinningwheel

To Sarah Hutchinson spinning

Easter in the WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
dales That saw the Saviour in his human frame

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime

These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own,
And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!

Decay of OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
Piety Matrons and Sires-who, punctual to the call
Of their loved Church, on fast or festival
Through the long year the House of Prayer would
seek:

By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak

Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
But with one fervour of devotion meek.

I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Is ancient Piety for ever flown?

Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds
That, struggling through the western sky, have won
Their pensive light from a departed sun!

WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise :-serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep
pace

With gentleness, in that becoming way

Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

On the Marriage of a Friend

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, From the And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none finds grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God

made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change,there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

Italian
of Michael
Angelo