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;
The memory of what has been
And nevermore will be.

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.

WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils ;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company :

I gazed, — and gazed, — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought :

For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

T the corner of Wood Street, when

daylight appears,

There's a thrush that sings loud,

it has sung for three years:

--

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has

heard

In the silence of morning the song of the

bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her!

She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury

glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the

dale,

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail,

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the

shade:

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colors have all passed away from her eyes.

HART-LEAP WELL.

HE Knight had ridden down from
Wensley Moor

With the slow motion of a summer's

cloud;

He turned aside towards a vassal's door,
And "Bring another horse!" he cried aloud.

"Another horse!" that shout the vassal

heard,

And saddled his best steed, a comely gray; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanished, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain,
Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on

With suppliant gestures and upbraidings

stern ;

But breath and eyesight fail; and one by one The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The bugles that so joyfully were blown?

-

- This chase it looks not like an earthly

chase;

Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The

poor Hart toils along the mountain-side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will I mention by what death he died ; But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn ; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy;