Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean, and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,

A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows, and the woods,

And mountains, and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye and ear, both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognize

In Nature and the language of the

sense

The anchor of my purest thoughts. WORDSWORTH.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay; And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair that lately

young flowers, sprang and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves: the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago; And the brier-rose and the orchis

died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the

brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will

come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up, and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

And

With footing worne, and leading inward far:

Faire harbour that them seems; so in they entred are.

And forth they passe, with pleasure forward led,

Joying to heare the birdes' sweete harmony,

Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred,

Seemed in their song to scorne the cruell sky.

Much can they praise the trees so straight and high,

The sayling pine; the cedar proud and tall;

The vine-propp elme; the poplar never dry;

The builder oake, sole king of forrests all;

The aspine good for staves; the cypresse funerall;

The laurel meed of mightie con

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET-SCENTED flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay

now,

And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely

tomb,

And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with

me

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude

To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine;

It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

H. K. WHITE.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the yeere? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?

I will whisper to your eares, The sweets of love are mixt with

tears.