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WILCOX.

THE month is now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling, with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth ;
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Chequer'd by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees
That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,
Adorn the shores ;-to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below,
With its bright colours intermix'd with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee, long roving here and there

To find a single flower, but all in vain ;
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,

Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps,

The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropp'd

From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

COWPER.

I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,

[graphic]

Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,

Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd

From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race,

They pick their fuel out of every hedge,

Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The spark of life.

WORDSWORTH.

NUTTING.

It seems a day,

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days which cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps
Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint,
Trick'd out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal dame.

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet,—or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;

A temper, known to those, who, after long

And weary expectation, have been blest

With sudden happiness beyond all hope.—
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons reappear

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