LUCY. WORDSWORTH. THREE years she grew in sun and shower: This child I to myself will take, She shall be mine, and I will make "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse, and with me In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn, And hers shall be the breathing balm, Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend 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, "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 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, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him nature's playmate. He knows well And he beholds the moon, and hushed at once 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, No marble hides our dear one's bier, The months it lived, the name it bore, No more;-yet Silence stalketh round And Death keeps watch without a sound, But palest here and latest hid, Is He-beneath this coffin-lid. How fair he was,-how very fair- Our hopes-(that he would happy be, All was a dream!-it came and fled, Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day, Pray!—from the happy prayer is due ; with you. |