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SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH.
WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.
How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent course pursues !
A little moment past so smiling !
Some other loiterers beguiling.
But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb. --And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky :
Or let me die !
AND in the frosty season, when the sun
15 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag, Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng, 25 To cut across the reflex of a star; Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side
30 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short ; and still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled 35 With visible motion her diurnal round. Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
THERE is an eminence,-of these our hills
ever be a solitude to me,
THE DANISH BOY:
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
Pass high above those fragrant bells
A spirit of noonday is he;
A harp is from his shoulder slung,
There sits he; in his face you spy