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He meditates on Him whose power he marks

[bough, In each green tree that proudly spreads the As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its root: and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the

hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without

end.

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ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

1766–1823.

BIRDS SINGING.

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy

wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers,

[breeze; That yester morn bloomed waving in the Sounds the most faint attract the ear,--the

hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving

cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas The blackbird's note comes mellow from

the dale, And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

[glen; Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn While from yon lowly roof, whose curling

smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

[broods; With dovelike wings peace o'er yon village The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's

din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops and looks back, and stops, and looks on man

[set free, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning

ray. But, chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail the poor man's

day; On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold,

or tree; And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ;

(felt joy With those he loves he shares the heartOf giving thanks to God—not thanks of

form, A word and a grimace, but reverently With covered face, and upward earnest

eyes. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail the poor man's

day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's

smoke; While wandering slowly up the river's side,

THE blackbird strove with emulation sweet, And Echo answered from her close retreat. The sporting whitethroat, on some twig's end borne,

[morn; Poured hymns to freedom and the noisy Stopped in her song, perchance, the starting thrush

(bush, Shook a white shower from the blackthorn Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms

hung, And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung.

LAMBS AT PLAY.

AWAY they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong,

[along, The green turf trembling as they bound Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every molehill is a bed of thyme; There panting stop, yet scarcely can re

frain, A bird, a leat, will set them off again; Or if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild briar roses into snow, Their little limbs, increasing efforts try; Like the torn flower the fair assemblage

fly.

THE PLOUGHBOY'S PLEASURES.

Just where the parting bough's light shadows play,

[day, Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching Stretched on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, Where swarming insects creep around his

head.

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The small dust-coloured beetle climbs with

pain O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain!

[conveyed, Thence higher still, by countless steps He gains the summit of a shivering blade, And flirts his filmy wings, and looks

around, Exulting in his distance from the ground. The tender speckled moth here dancing

seen, The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, And all prolific Summer's sporting train, Their little lives by various powers sustain. But what can unassisted vision do? (sue ? What, but recoil where most it would purHis patient gaze but finish with a sigh, When music waking speaks the skylark nigh!

(sings, Just starting from the corn she cheerly And trusts with conscious pride her downy

wings; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark

her way.

Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wandering bird before his

sight; Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. He views the spot, and as the cloud moves

by, Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; Her form, her motion, undistinguished quite,

[to light: Save when she wheels direct from shade The fluttering songstress a mere speck be

came, Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream. He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close.

When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel

play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no With treasured tales and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor nirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here: What secret charms this silent spot endear! Mark yon old Mansion, frowning through the trees,

[breeze. Whose hollow turret woos the whistling That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,

[conveyed. First to these eyes the light of heaven The mouldering gateway shows the grassgrown court,

[sport; Once the calm scene of many a simple When nature pleased, for life itself was new, Andthe heart promised what the fancy drew. See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured

shield, The martin's old hereditary nest. (guest ! Long may the ruin spare its hallowed As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall where once, in antiquated state The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stained with dews, with cobwebs

darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due

degree, We sweetened every meal with social glee; The heart's light laugh pursued the circling

jest, And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound,

[round; And turned the blindfold hero round and 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring, And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing: Giants and genii claimed each wondering

ear, And orphan sorrow; drew the ready tear; Oft with the Babes we wandered in the

wood, Or viewe 1 the forest feats of Robin Hood; Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling steps we scaled the lonely

tower, O'er intent innocence to hang and weep, Murdered by ruffian hands when smiling

its sleep.

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SAMUEL ROGERS.

1762—1855

THE OLD HOME.

From Pleasures of Memory. TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village

green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene; Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet

broke,

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As through the garden's desert paths I rove,

THE GIPSIES. What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the Down by yon hazel copse at evening blazed west,

The gipsy's fagot: there we stood and We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; gazed Welcomed the wild bee home on weary Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, wing,

Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the Her moving lips, her caldron brimming spring.

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o'er,

[bore, How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive The drowsy brood that on her back she The bark now silvered by the touch of Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, Time;

afraid, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; Soared in the swing, half pleased, and half Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of Thro' sister elms that waved their summer blackest shade,

[bayed ; shade;

(seat, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat. Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard

wall. Childhood's loved group revisits every As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, scene, —

[green. And traced the line of life with searching The tangled wood-walk and the tufted view,

(hopes and fears, Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! How throbbed my futtering pulse with Clothed with far softer hues than Light To learn the colour of my future years! can give.

[below Ah! then what honest triumph flushed my Thou first, best friend, that Heaven assigns breast:

[blest! To soothe and sweeten all the cares we This truth once known-to bless is to be know;

salarm, We led the bending beggar on his way Whose glad suggestions still each vain (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey, When nature fades, and life forgets to Soothed the keen pangs his agèd spirit felt) charm;

| And on his tale with mute attention dwelt,

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As in his scrip we dropt our little store, As through the mist he winged his way
And sighed to think that little was no more, (A cloud that hovers night and day),
He breathed his prayer, “ Long may such | The hound hung back, and back he drew
goodness live!"

The master and his merlin too, 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. That narrow place of noise and strife Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged Received their little all of life. their flight,

[sight. There now the matin-bell is rung, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the The “Miserere" duly sung;

And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wandering up and down the wood,

But what avail they, ruthless lord ?
MEMORY.

Thou didst not shudder when the sword

Here on the young its fury spent, HAIL, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless The helpless, and the innocent. mine,

[shine! Sit now, and answer groan for groan, -From age to age unnumbered treasures The child before thee is thine own! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call And she who wildly wanders there obey,

(sway.

The mother in her long despair, And Place and Time are subject to thy Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone, Of those who by the Wharfe are weeping: The only pleasure we can call our own. Of those who would not be consoled Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions die When red with blood the river rolled. If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo! Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away; Butcan the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,

GINEVRA. Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her If thou shouldst ever come to Modena, flight,

Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate Pour round her path a stream of living light, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. And gild those pure and perfect realms of Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, rest.

[blest. And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses, Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are Will long detain thee; but before thou go,

Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

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THE BOY OF EGREMOND.

"SAY, what remains when Hope is fled?'.
She answered, “Endless weeping,'
For in the herdsman's eye she read
Who in his shroud lay sleeping.
At Embsay rang the matin-bell,
The stag was roused on Barden-fell,
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;
When near the cabin in the wood,
In tartan clad and forest green,
With hound in leash and hawk in hood,
The Boy of Egremond was seen.
Blithe was his song—a song of yore ;
But where the rock is rent in two
And the river rushes through,
His voice was heard no more.
'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed,
But that step,---it was his last !

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth ;-
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said " Beware!"-her vest
of gold

[head to foot-
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has

fled,
Like some wild melody !--Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm.

*

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else reinained to

him?

• The slid over the river Wharfe.

SAM. TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

1772-1834.

EVENING.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: The light has left the summit of the hill, Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell awhile, O soft and silent spot! On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,

[called Homeward I wind my way; and lo! reFrom bodings that have well-nigh wearied

me, I find myself upon the brow, and pause Startled! And after lonely sojourning In such a quiet and surrounded nook, This burst of prospect, here the shadowy.

main, Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty Of that huge amphitheatre of rich And elmy fields, seems like societyConversing with the mind, and giving it A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!

But now,

The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight.
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every
tongue.

[hour; But now the day was come, the day, the And in the lustre of her youth she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, When all sat down, the bride was wanting

thereNor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook,

(spread. And soon from guest to guest the panic 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,

(still, Laughing and looking back, and flying Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.

alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be

guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived ; and long might'st thou have

[thing, An old man wandering as in quest of someSomething he could not find-he knew not what.

(awhile When he was gone, the house remained Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers, Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of seårch 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said

[Ginevra, By one as young, as thoughtless, as “Why not remove it from its lurkingplace?"

[way 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the It burst-it fell; and lo! a skeleton ; And hereand there a pearl,an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold: All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of bothGINEVRA.”—There then had she found a grave!

(self, Within that chest had she concealed herFluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;

(there, When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush Fastened her down for ever!

seen

THE NIGHTINGALE.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmu.ing: it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still ; A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall

find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! A melancholy bird ? Oh, idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy, But some night-wandering man, whose

heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love (And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,

(tale And made all gentle sounds tell back the Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain, And many a poet echoes the conceit; Poet who hath been building up the rhyme

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