MAY, 1840. LOVELY morn, so still, so very still, Though all the odorous buds are blossoming, Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing, And cons by fits and bits her evening trill. An hour together, looking at the sky, Long listening for the signal of a sigh ; And the sweet Nun, diffused in voiceless prayer, HARTLEY COLERIDGE. NOVEMBER. THE mellow year is hasting to its close; Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, The dusky waters shudder as they shine, Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine. TO A DEAF AND DUMB LITTLE GIRL. IKE a loose island on the wide expanse, Her waking life as lonely as a trance, And never hear the music which expounds She cannot hear it, all her little being What can she know of beauteous or sublime? And yet methinks she looks so calm and good, God must be with her in her solitude. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, i HEN we were idlers with the loitering rills, Our love was nature: and the peace that floated On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted Of that sweet music which no ear can measure ; And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, The hills sleep on in their eternity. HARTLEY Coleridge. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY FROM HER POOR KINSMAN. AIR maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes, Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes, And lovely all ;-methinks thy scornful mood. Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize For never sure was seen a royal bride Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride,- Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. |