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And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstained with wine, –
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits, lone and still,
The black bird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her inossy nest ;
From busy scenes and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies,
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embosséd book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed.
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And, at the close, the gleams behold
of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state ?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot ?
Who but would cast his poinp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray ;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?

THOMAS WARTON.

COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE.

Come to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the summer sing,
Where cares and toil and sadness cease!
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love ?
Thee the stream that gushes clear,
Thee the birds that carol near,
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby ;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares and toil and sadness cease.

SEE, O SEE

SEE, O see !
How every tree,
Every bower,

Every flower,
A new life gives to others' joys ;

While that I
Grief-stricken lie,
Nor can meet

With any sweet
But what faster mine destroys.
What are all the senses' pleasures
When the mind has lost all measures !

Hear, O hear!
How sweet and clear
The nightingale

And water's fall
In concert join for others' ear;

While to me,
For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,
And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures
When the soul has lost all measures ?

LORD BRISTOL

DOVER CLIFF.

co

FROM

KING LEAR."

Come on, sir; here's the place : stand still.

How fearful And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful

trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall ar choring bark, Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight; the murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more ; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE OCEAN.

SONNET.

The ocean at the bidding of the moodi
Forever changes with his restless tide :
Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon
With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES

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And semblance of return. Anon from home
He issues forth anew, high ridged and free,
The gentlest murmur of his seething foam
Like armies whispering where great echoes be.
0, leave me here upon this beach to rove,
Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone !
A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly

thrown,
And reaching those on mountain heights above,
To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own ?)
A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots :

I slide by hazel covers ;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows ? I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows
I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses ;

CHARLES TENNYSON.

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SONG OF THE BROOK.
I come from haunts of coot and hern:

I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

(The Vale of the Towy embraces, in its winding course of fifteen miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less cultivated than the Vale of Usk, its woodland views are more romantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces a Roman Camp; Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the opposite side of the river ; Merlin's chair recalls Spenser; and a farm-house near the foot of Llangumnor Hill brings back the meiaory of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the cave of Merlin among the dark woods of Dinevawr.]

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

SILENT nymph, with curious eye !
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phæbus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong ;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rili,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate !
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads ;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow !
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires ;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love !
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood :
His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps ;
So both, a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.
"T is now the raven's bleak abode ;
'T is now the apartment of the toad ;
And there the fox securely feeds ;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall ;
Yet Time has seen that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow -

Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate !
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, -
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought.
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower ;
The town and village, dome and farm, –
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie ;
What streaks of meadow cross the eye !
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem ;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear ;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

0, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see ;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul.
”T is thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie ;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep ;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,

And with music fill the sky,

The waters have a music to mine ear
Now, even now, my joys run high.

It glads me much to hear.
Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ;
Search for Peace with all your skill ;

It is a quiet glen, as you may see,
Open wide the lofty door,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Seek her on the marble floor.

That spread their giant branches, broad and free, In vain you search ; she is not here !

The silent growth of many centuries ; In vain you search the domes of Care !

And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, Grass and flowers Quiet treads,

A sabbath of the woods. On the meads and mountain-heads,

Few know its quiet shelter, none, like me, Along with Pleasure, -close allied,

Do seek it out with such a fond desire, Ever by each other's side ;

Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, And often, by the murmuring rill,

And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, Hears the thrush, while all is still

When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

Rests here his weary wing.
JOHN DYER.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless AFTON WATER.

store, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

I fling the hours away. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

A gracious couch the root of an old oak Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through Whose branches yield it moss and canopy the glen,

Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke Yę wild whistling black birds in yon thorny den, Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for. It hangs above the stream that idly flies, bear,

Heedless of any eyes. I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Farmarked with the courses of clear winding rills ; While every sense on earnest mission sent,

Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, There daily I wander as noon rises high,

Returns, thought laden, back with bloom and My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

flower How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; A profitable toil. There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,

And still the waters trickling at my feet The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repcat, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;

Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, Yet not so rudely as to send one sound As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear Through the thick copse

around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Hangs o'er the archway opening through the
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; trees,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,

And with awakened vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

How like - its sure and undisturbed retreat,
THE SHADED WATER.

Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm When that my mood is sad, and in the noise To the pure waters trickling at my feet And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,

The bending trees that overshade

my

form! I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys So far as sweetest things of earth may seem

And sit me down beside this little brook ; Like those of which we dream.

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ROBERT BURNS.

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We will not see them; will not go

To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough, if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow. “Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown !

It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past,

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! For when we're there, although 't is fair,

'T will be another Yarrow !

“If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly, Should we be loath to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy, Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'T will soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow !"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

YARROW VISITED.

YARROW UNVISITED.
From Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled ;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled ;
And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my “winsome Marrow," “Whate'er betide, we 'll turn aside,

And see the braes of Yarrow." “Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,

Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow; 't is their own,

Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow !
But we will downward with the Tweed,

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. “There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow ? “What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under ? There are a thousand such elsewhere,

As worthy of your wonder.” Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn;

My true-love sighed for sorrow, And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! “0, green," said I, “are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path and open strath

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow. “Let beeves and homebred kine partake

The sweets of Burn Mill meadow ; The swan still on St. Mary's Lake

Float double, swan and shadow !

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And is this - Yarrow ? — This the stream

Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream!

An image that hath perished !
O that some minstrel's harp were near,

To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,

That fills my heart with sadness !
Yet why? --- a silvery current flows

With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills

Been soothed in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted ;
For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,

Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused, -

A tender, hazy brightness ;
Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes

All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here to admit

A pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous Flower

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound

On which the herd is feeding;

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