Whose course hath been chang'a! yet my With what a pensive beauty fall

soul can survey Across the mossy mouldering wall The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day. That rose-tree's clustered arches! See Yes! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore, The robin-redbreast warily, And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to Bright through the blossoms, leaves his nest:

the shore.

Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest
At the firesides of men-but shy

Through all the sunny summer-hours,
I wake from my trance !-lo! the Sun is He hides himself among the flowers

declining!

In his own wild festivity.
And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is What lulling sound, and shadow cool

shining,

| Hangs half the darkened church-yard o'er, -One soft golden gleam ere the twilight From thy green depths so beautiful.

prevail!

Thou gorgeous sycamore! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, Oft hath the holy wine and bread Where sings the fair maid to the viol 80 Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,

sweet,

Where many a bright and hoary head Or the floor is alive with her white twink Bowed at that awful sacrament.

ling feet.

Now all beneath the turf are laid Down, down like a bird to the depth of the On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.

Above that consecrated tree -Vanish'd Creature! I bid thy fair image Ascends the tapering spire that seems

farewell!

To lift the soul up silently
To heaven with all its dreams,
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams

The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A CHURCH - YARD-SCENE. A dirge-like song, half-blins, half-woe,

The voice so lonely seems!
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverend steps, from stone to stone
In a small village-church-yard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move!
And as we read the names unknown

HYMN TO SPRING.
Of young and old to judgment gone,
And hear in the calm air above

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! Time onwards softly flying,

Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream, To meditate, in Christian love,

She, like a smiling infant, timid plays Upon the dead and dying!

On the green margin of this sunny lake, Across the silence seem to go

Fearing, by starts, the little breaking wares With dream-like motion, wavering, slow, (If riplings rather known by sound than And shrouded in their folds of snow,

sight The friends we loved long long ago! May haply so be named) that in the grass Gliding across the sad retreat,

Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming How beautiful their phantom-feet!

proud What tenderness is in their eyes,

To venture round the edge of yon far point, Turned where the poor survivor lies That from an eminence softly sinking down, 'Mid monitory sanctities!

Doth from the wide and homeless waters What years of vanished joy are fanned

shape From one uplifting of that hand

A scene of tender, delicate repose, In its white stillness! when the Shade Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy. Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade Delightful Spring!-nor less an emblem fair, From our embrace, how dim appears Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth. This world's life through a mist of tears! Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!

On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this,

Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns Such is the scene around me now: Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and A little Church-yard on the brow

wished it long, Of a green pastoral hill;

In their warm hearts conceived those enlogies Its sylvan village sleeps below,

That, lending to the world inanimate And faintly here is heard the flow

A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve Of Woodburn's summer-rill;

The sanctity of Nature, and embalm A place where all things mournful meet, Her fleeting spectacles in memory'a cell And yet the sweetest of the sweet,

In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll The stillest of the still!

| The ciroling seasons, and as each gives birth

approach

To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,
Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade Half happy, half afraid ! O blessed things!
Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours. At sight of this your perfect innocence,
But Nature calls the poet to her aid, The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
And in his lays beholds her glory live Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom, The strife of working intellect; the stir
When all is dim before the outward eye, Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound
Nor the ear catches one delightful sound, l of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry
They who have wander'd in their musing That ardent spirits burn for in their pride,

walks

Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul With the great poets, in their spirits feel Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven. No change on earth, but see the unalter'd

woods Laden with beauty, and inhale the song 1 Now, is the time in some meek solitude Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers. To hold communion with those innocent

thoughts

That bless'd our earlier days;—to list the So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!

voice And now I hail thee as a friend who pays Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost An annual visit, yet whose image lives

shrine, From parting to return, and who is blest And learn if still she sing the quiet tune Each time with blessings warmer than before. That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,

That 'mid the powers, the passions, and

desires Ob! gracious Power! 'for thy beloved of riper age, we still have kept our hearts

Free from pollution and 'mid tempting scenes The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,

smiles,

Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not; Struggling with tears, and often overcome. Ah me! with what a new sublimity A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads, A balmy spirit breathing tenderness, Ourselves as stately. Smiling will we gaze Prepared thy way, and all created things On the clouds whose happy home is in the Pelt that the angel of delight was near.

heavens; Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues

smile

His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea. Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-|But dread the beauty of a vernal day,

born

Thou trembler before memory! To the saint of Nature's guardian-spirits. The great Snn, What sight so lovely as the angel-form Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn His face ashamed, -unable to endure Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky; The upbraiding silence of the scraph's And when thy feet descended on the earth,

eyes ! Scarce could they move amid the clustering

flowers By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, Yet awful must it be, even to the best To hail her blest deliverer!- Ye fair Trees, And wisest man, when he beholds the sun How are ye changed, and changing while I Prepared once more to run his annual round

gaze!

Of glory and of love, and thinks that God It seems as if some gleam of verdant light To him, though sojourning in earthly sbades, Pell on you from a rainbow; but it lives Hath also given an orbit, whence his light Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour May glad the nations, or at least diffuse Into a deeper radiance.. Ye sweet Birds, Peace and contentment over those he loves! Were you asleep through all the wintry His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,

hours,

With holy confidence the thoughtful man Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves ? Renews his vows to virtue,-vows that bind There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the To purest motives and most useful deeds.

Spring,

Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day, Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts; Abide her annual reign, when forth they Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys

come

Or sorrows; meditations long and deep With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song, On objects fit for the immortal love As ye do now, unwearied choristers, of souls immortal; weeping penitence Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not, For duties (plain though highest duties bc) Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Despised or violated; humblest vows, Than the young lambs, that froin the valley- Though humble strong as death, henceforth side

to walk

Elate in innocence; and, holier still, Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, Warm gushings of his spirit unto God

doubts and fears For all his past existence, whether bright, Of what might be the final doom of man; As the spring-landscape sleeping in the sun, Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea The language of despair; and, mournful Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be

sight! Frequent and long his musings, till he feels Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's As all the stir subsides, like busy day

grave!Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity,

Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathHow blest is peace when born within the soul.

less lays! O foolish bards, immortal in your works,

Yet trustless of your immortality! And therefore do I sing these pensive Not now are they whom Nature calls her hymns,

bards O Spring! to thee, though thou by some Thus daunted by the image of decay.

art callid

They have their tears, and oft they shed Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best

them too, With festive dances and a choral song. By reason unreproach'd ; but on the pale No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring! Cold cheek of death they see a spirit smile, Who, filling all things with his own poor Bright and still brightening, even like thee, griefs,

oh Spring! Sees nought but sadness in the character Stealing in beauty through the winterOf universal Nature, and who weaves

snow ! Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy. Yet knowing something, dimly though it be, And therefore still more awful, of that Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is

strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired It chanceth oft, that, mix'd with Nature's

banka smiles,

I have so long reposed, yet in the depth My soul beholds a solemn quietness Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves, That almost looks like grief, as if on earth Farewell !--the voice of worship and of There were no perfect joy, and happiness Still trembled on the brink of misery! Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve

Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung!

Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive Yea! mournful thoughts like these even

now arise,

Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy,

retnins Sports round me, and all images of peace The soul of music sleeping in its strings. Seem native to this earth, nor other home Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death With every loveliest thing that seems to us Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a LORD RONALD'S CHILD.

child More beauteous than its playmates, even THRER days ago Lord Ronald's child

more pure

Was singing o'er the mountain-wild, Than they? while gazing on its face, we Among the sunny showers

think

That brought the rainbow to her sight, That one so fair most surely soon will die! | And bathed her footsteps in the light Such are the fears now beating at my heart. Of purple heather-flowers. Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten | But chilly came the evening's breath

things

The silent dew was cold with death Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little She reached her home with pain;

lambs

And from the bed where now she lies, Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning With snow-white face and closed eyes,

birds

She ne'er must rise again.
Mute ;-faded every flower so beautiful ;-
And all fair symptoms of incipient life
To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay! Still is she as a frame of stone,

That in its beauty lies alone,

With silence breathing from its face, Such are the melancholy dreams that For ever in some holy place!

filled

Chapel or aisle! on marble laidIn the elder time the songs of tenderest bards, With pale hands o'er its pale breast spread

praise

strain

With rosy cheeks and smiling eyes
As heaven's unclouded radiance clear;
And there like Hope to Sorrow's strain
With dewy voice replies:

What! though the stream be dead,

Its banks all still and dry!
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed

In the air-groves of the sky.

| Seven lovely days had like a happy dream
Died' in our spirits silently away,
Since Grassmere,waking to the morning-ray,
Met our last lingering look with farewell

gleam.
I may not tell what joy our being filled,
Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep,
What beauteous visions lonely souls can build
When ʼmid the mountain-solitude they sleep.
I may not tell how the deep power of sound
Can back to life long-faded dreams recall,'
When lying 'mid the noise that lives around
Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall.
To thee, my WORDSWORTH! whose inspired

song
Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner

Bhrine,
To thee by birth-right such high themes

belong,
The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine!
One lowlier simple strain of human love be

mine.

What! though our prayers from death

The queen-rose might not save!
With brighter bloom and balmier breath

She springeth from the grave.

What! though our bird of light

Lie mute with plumage dim!
In heaven I see her glancing bright-

I hear her angel-hymn.

What! though the dark tree smile

No more with our dove's calm sleep! She folds her wing on a sunny isle

In heaven's untroubled deep.

True that our beauteous doe

Hath left her still retreat-
But purer now in heavenly snow

She lies at Jesus' feet.

How teapt our hearts, when from an airy

height,
On which we paused for a sweet fountain's

sake,
With green fields fading in a peaceful lake,
A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight!
We felt as if at home; a magic sound,
As from a spirit whom we must obey,
Bade us descend into the vale profound,
And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day.
The placid lake that rested far below,
Softly embosoming another sky,
Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier gloy,
And seem'd to send us looks of amity.
Our hearts were open to the gracions love
Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride;
So following the still impulse from above,
Down the green slope we wind with airy

glide,
And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's

side.

O star! untimely set!

Why should we weep for thee! Thy bright and dewy coronet

Is rising o'er the sea!

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

The hush of bliss was on the sunny hills, The clonds were sleeping on the silent sky, Ah me! even now I see before me stand. We travelled in the midst of melody Among the verdant holly-boughs balf-hid. Warbled around us from the mountain-rills. The little radiant airy Pyramid, The voice was like the glad voice of a friend Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy-land. Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; As silently as gathering cloud it rose, We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, And seems a cloud descended on the earth, And said: This day no farther will we roam! Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose, The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth Had surely felt the beauty of that day, Of every short-lived breeze: the sunbeam. And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given

greet To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay. The beauteous stranger in the lonely bar; But we, who travelled through that region Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet. bright,

With gentle glide, as weary of their play. Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, And in the liquid lustre of the lake From youth had loved the dreams of pure Its image sleeps, reflected far below; • delight,

Such image as the clouds of summer make, Descending on us through the lonely air, Clear seen amid the waveless water's glor. When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and As slumbering infant still and pure as April Earth as Heaven is fair!