And when the evening light decays
And all is calm around,

There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bells sound.

But oh! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn,

The sweetest is the voice of Love
That welcomes his return.

LINES,

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.

Wordsworth.

How richly glows the water's breast
Before us tinged with evening hues,
While facing thus the crimson west,

The Boat her silent course pursues.

And see how dark the backward stream
A little moment past so smiling,
And still perhaps with faithless gleam
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure,
But heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours may endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.

And let him nurse his fond deceit,

And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet
Tho' grief and pain may come to morrow!

ON LEAVING SCHOOL.

Wordsworth.

DEAR native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell;
That whereso'er my steps shall tend,
And whenso'er my course shall end:
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you:
Thus when the Sun prepared for rest,
Hath gained the precincts of the west;
Tho' his departing radiance fail
To illuminate the hollow vale,

A lingering light he fondly throws

On the dear hills where first he rose.

I'LL bid my hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower, and myrtle tree.

There, all his wild-wood scents to bring,
The sweet South Wind shall wander by;
And, with the music of his wing,

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime!

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay!

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wand'ring Wind of fairy land!

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heav'n and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,
Where pleasure's sigh alone is heav'd,,
Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceiv'd;

From some sweet Paradise afar,
Thy music wanders, distant, lost;
Where Nature lights her leading star,
And love is never, never cross'd.

Oh! gentle gale of Eden bowers,
If back thy rosy feet should roam,
To revel with the cloudless hours,

In nature's more propitious home

Name to thy lov'd Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine;
A fairer form than cherub loves,
And let the name be CAROLINE..

CAROLINE.

PART II. T. Campbell..

GEM of the crimson-colour'd even,

Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of heaven,,

Beloved star, dost thou delay?

1

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows,
So due thy plighted step returns

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To peace, to pleasure, and to love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly;
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of love's delicious witchery.

Oh! sacred to the fall of day,
Queen of propitious stars, appear!

And early rise, and long delay,
When CAROLINE herself is here..

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Where trees the sunward summit crown; And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly-scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome!
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.