I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Continuous as the stars that shine In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought For oft when on my couch I lie, And then my heart with pleasure filis, THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her! She sees Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, POWER OF MUSIC. AN Orpheus! an Orpheus !-yes, Faith may grow boll, Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, His station is there; and he works on the crowd, What an eager assembly-what an empire is this! As the moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-brow'd Jack, That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in haste- The porter sits down on the weight which he bore; He stands, back'd by the wall; he abates not his din; From the old and the young, from the poorest-and there ! O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band; I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height, There's a cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; STEPPING WESTWARD. While my fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a hut where in the course of cur tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward.” "What, you are stepping westward?”—“ Yea.” If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home, I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound The very sound of courtesy; Its power was felt; and while my eye GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN. Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. Does then the bard sleep here indeed! But something deeper far than these: TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.; SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower!! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head; And these grey rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road, |