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LUCY.

WORDSWORTH.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower:
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown ;

This child I to myself will take,

She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of mine own.

"Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse, and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm,

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place,

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound,

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"And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give,
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell!"

Thus Nature spake-the work was done-How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene, memory of what has been,

The

And never more will be.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

COLERIDGE.

[EXTRACT.]

THAT strain again!

Full fain it would detain me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,

Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How would he place his hand behind his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,

And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

To make him nature's playmate. He knows well
The evening star; and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream,)
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,

And he beholds the moon, and hushed at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eye that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well,
It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet nightingale! Once more, my friends, farewell!

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

BARRY CORNWALL.

HITHER Come at close of day,

And o'er this dust, sweet mothers, pray! A little infant lies within,

Who never knew the name of sin,Beloved, bright,-and all our own; Like morning fair,-and sooner flown!

No leaves or garlands wither here,
Like those in foreign lands;

No marble hides our dear one's bier,
The work of alien hands:

The months it lived, the name it bore,
The silver telleth-nothing more!

No more;-yet Silence stalketh round
This vault so dim and deep,

And Death keeps watch without a sound,
Where all lie pale and sleep;

But palest here and latest hid,

Is He-beneath this coffin-lid.

How fair he was,-how very fair-
What dreams we pondered o'er,
Making his life so long and clear,
His fortunes flowing o'er;

Our hopes-(that he would happy be,
When we ourselves were old,)—
The scenes we saw, or hoped to see-
They're soon and sadly told.

All was a dream!-it came and fled,
And left us here among the dead!

Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day,
While we, sad parents, weep alway!
Pray too, (and softly be't and long,)
That all your babes, now fair and strong,
May blossom like-not like the rose,
For that doth fade when summer goes,
('T was thus our pretty infant died,
The summer, and its mother's pride!)
But like some stern enduring tree,
That reacheth its green century,
May grow, may flourish, then decay,
After a long, calm, happy day,
Made happier by good deeds to men,
And hopes in heaven to meet again!

Pray!—from the happy prayer is due ;
While we-
('t is all we now can do)
Will check our tears, and pray

with you.

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