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Hark! as they murmur down the dell,
A lingering tale those voices tell;
And while they flit in vacant air
A beauteous smile those faces wear.
Alas ! I turn my dreaming eyes,
The lovely vision fades and flies;

The tale is done

The smile is gone-
I am a stranger,--and alone.
Within

yon humble cottage, where
The fragrant woodbine scents the air,
And the neat door looks fair to view,
Seen through its leafy avenue,
The Matron of the Village School
Maintain'd her ancient state and rule.
The dame was rigid and severe,
With much to love, but more to fear ;
She was my nurse in infancy;
And as I sat upon her knee,
And listen’d to her stories, told
In dialect of Doric mould,
While wonders still on wonders grew,
I marvell’d if the tale were true;
And all she said of valorous knight,
And beauteous dame, and love, and fight,
Enchanter fierce, and goblin sly,
My childhood heard right greedily.
At last the wand of magic broke,
The tale was ended : and she spoke
Of learning's everlasting well,
And said "I ought to learn to spell;"
And then she talk'd of sound and sense ;
Of verbs and adverbs, mood and tense;
And then she would with care disclose
The treasured Primer's letter'd rows;
Whereat my froward rage spoke out,
In cry and passion, frown and pout,
And with a sad and loathing look,
I shrunk from that enchanted book.

Oh! sweet were those untutor'd years, Their joys and pains, their hopes and fears; There was a freshness in them all Which we may taste, but not recall. No!-Man must never more enjoy The thoughts, the passions of the boy, The aspirations high and bold, Unseen, unguided, uncontrollid; The first ambition, and the pride That youthful bosoms feel and hide ; The longings after manhood's sun, Which end in clouds- -as mine have done.

In yonder neat abode, withdrawn From strangers by its humble lawn, Which the neat shrubbery enshrouds From scrutiny of passing crowds, The Pastor of the village dwelt: To him with clasping hands I knelt, When first he taught my lips to pray, My steps to walk in virtue's way, My heart to honour and to love The God that ruleth from above. He was a man of sorrows ;-Care Was seated on his hoary hair, Ilis cheek was colourless ; his brow Was furrow'd o'er, as mine is now; His earliest youth had fled in tears, And grief was on his closing years. But still he met, with soul resign'd, The day of mourning; and his mind, Beneath its load of woe and pain, Might deeply feel, but not complain ; And Virtue o'er his forehead's snows Had thrown an air of meek repose, More lovely than the hues that streak The bloom of childhood's laughing cheek; It seem'd to tell the holy rest That will not leave the righteous breast, The trust in One that died to save,

The hope that looks beyond the grave,
The calm of unpretending worth,
The bliss ---that is not of the earth.
And he would smile ; but in his smile
Sadness would seem to lurk the while;
Child as I was, I could not bear
To look upon that placid air ;
I felt the tear-drop in mine eye,
And wish'd to weep, and knew not why.

He had one daughter.-Many years
Have fleeted o'er me, since my tears
Fell on that form of quiet grace,
That humble brow, and beauteous face.
She parted from this world of ill
When I was yet a child: but still,
Until my heart shall cease to beat,
That countenance so mildly sweet,
That kind blue eye and golden hair,
Eternally are graven there.
I see her still, as when she stood
In the ripe bloom of womanhood ;
Yet deigning, where I led, to stray,
And mingle in my childhood's play ;
Or sought my Father's dwelling-place,
And clasp'd me in her fond embrace ;
A friend when I had none beside ;
A mother, when my Mother died.

Poor Ellen! she is now forgot Upon the hearths of this dear spot ; And they, to whom her bounty came, They, who would dwell upon her name With raptured voice, as if they found Hope, comfort, riches, in the sound, Have ceased to think how Ellen fledWhy should they sorrow for the dead ? Perhaps, around the festive board, Some aged chroniclers record

Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
And then a sudden, silent gloom
Creeps on the lips that smiled before,
And jest is still, and mirth is o'er.
She was so beauteous in her dress
Of unaffected loveliness,
So bright, and so beneficent,
That you might deem some fairy sent
To hush the helpless orphan's fears,
And dry the widow's gushing tears.
She moved in beauty, like the star
That shed its lustre from afar,
To tell the wisest on the earth
The tidings of a Saviour's birth;
So pure, so cheering was her ray-
So quickly did it die away!

There came a dark infectious pést,
To break the hamlet's tranquil rest;
It came—it breathed on Ellen's face;
And so she went to Death's embrace,
A blooming and a sinless bride,-
And how I knew not-but she died.

I was the inmate of her home, And knew not why she did not come To cheer my melancholy mood ; Her father wept in solitude ; The servants wore a look of woe, Their steps were soft, their whispers low; And when I ask'd them why they sigh’d, They shook their heads, and turn'd aside.

I enter'd that forbidden room ! All things were still!-a deathlike gloom Stole on me, as I saw her lie In her white vest of purity. She seem'd to smile! her lips were wet, The bloom was on her features yet : I looked !--at first I thought she slept

But when her accents did not bless-
And when her arms did not caress-
And when I mark'd her quiet air,

And saw that soul was wanting there,
I sat me on the ground, and wept !

P. M. W.

HORE PALUDANÆ;

OR, DROPS OF DERWENTWATER.

NO. I.

SONNET ON THE STATE OF SPAIN IN APRIL, 1820.
I sat, and bask'd me in the noontide sun,
By Derwent's lovely water; bright he shone,
The sun shone bright, but ever and anon
Athwart his chariot's golden track did run
Light fleeting clouds, then fled, as if to shun
Thinsulted Monarch's ire: the first scarce gone,
Sunward their brother clouds came trooping on,
Like metaphysic fancies, one by one
Crossing the clear orb of my mind. In Spain
Thus civil strife to foreign war succeeds,
And each extinguish'd feud its fellow breeds;
So Fate hath order'd, that in endless chain
Effects from cause shall flow: but what will be
The end of this, no mortal can foresee.

W. W.
Rydal Mount.

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