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22

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain ;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

Johnson.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis

my
faith that

every

flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,

Their thoughts I cannot measure;
But the least motion which they made,

It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from Heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Wordsworth.

ON THE RHINE.

'Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's brow

Hung with the clusters of the bending vine

Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,

As some grey convent-wall, or sunlit spire Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow. Here castles, like the prisons of despair,

Frown as we pass !—There, on the vineyard's side,

The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide; While grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds

away.

Bowles.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty side by side,

They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream, is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest

Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep,
He was the loved of all, yet none

O’er his low bed may weep.

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One sleeps where southern vines are drest

Above the noble slain;
He wrapt his colours round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest—who played

Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth,-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!

Mrs. Hemans.

LINES ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN

SLEEPING IN THE SAME CHAMBER.

AND has the earth lost its so spacious round,
The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heaven-my universe of Love ?
All that

my

God can give me or remove,
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death,
Sweet that in this small compass I behove
To live their living, and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh,
We might resign all mundane care and strife;
And seek together that transcendent sky,
Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!

Hood.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Stay near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight !
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart !

Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art,
A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
• The time, when in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very

hunter did I rush
Upon the prey with leaps and springs
I follow'd on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! fear'd to brush
The dust from off its wings.

Wordsworth.

THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER.

THREE
years

she

grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take,
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse, and with me

The girl, in rock and plain,

26

THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER.

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.
“She shall be sportive as the fawn,

That wild with glee across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing palm,
And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute, insensate things.
“The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her—for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.
“ The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her, and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place;
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound,
Shall
pass

into her face.
" And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height;
Her virgin bosom swell.
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give,
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.”
Thus Nature spake—the work was donem
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

Wordsworth.

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