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With footing worne, and leading in
ward far: Faire harbour that them seems; so
in they entred are.
And forth they passe, with pleasure
forward led, Joying to heare the birdes' sweete
harmony, Which therein shrouded from the
tempest dred, Seemed in their song to scorne the
cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so
straight and high, The sayling pine; the cedar proud
and tall; The vine-propp elme; the poplar ney
er dry; The builder oake, sole king of for
rests all; The aspine good for staves; the cy
presse funerall; The laurell meed of mightie con
querours And poets sage; the fir that weep
eth still; The willow, worne of forlorne para
mours; The yew, obedient to the bender's
will; The birch for shaftes; the sallow for
the mill; The mirrhe sweet-bleeding in the
bitter wound; The warlike beech; the ash for
nothing ill; The fruitful olive; and the platane
round; The carver holme; the maple, seldom inward sound.
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they
marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that
crossed the sea, And drew their sounding bows at
Azincour; Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poic
tiers. Of vast circumference and gloom
profound This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnifi
cent To be destroyed. But worthier still
of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrow
dale, Joined in one solemn and capacious
grove; Huge trunks! and each particular
trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately con
volved ; Nor uninformed with fantasy, and
looks That threaten the profane; a pillared
shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red
brown hue, By sheddings from the pining um
brage tinged Perennially; beneath whose sable
roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose,
decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly
shapes May meet at noontide; Fear, and
trembling Hope, Silence, and Foresight; Death the
Skeleton, And Time the Shadow; there to cele
brate, As in a natural temple scattered
o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy
stone, United worship; or in mute re
pose To lie, and listen to the mountain
flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lor
ton Vale, Which to this day stands single in
the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of
yore: Not loath to furnish weapons for the
THE OSMUNDA REGALIS.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
OFTEN, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one
now, And now the other, to point out,
perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed
too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there
are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly
that tall fern, So stately, of the queen Osmunda
named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by
the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the
Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
SWEET-SCENTED flower! who art
wont to bloom
To waft thy waste perfume!
wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and
long, The melody of death..
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to
dwell With the pale corse in lonely
tomb, And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with
Beneath the lowly alder-tree,
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare in
trude To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.
THE bush that has most briers and
bitter fruit: Wait till the frost has turned its
green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate
suit, And thou mayst find e’en there a
homely bread. Upon the hills of Salem scattered
wide, Their yellow blossoms gain the eye
in spring; And, straggling e’en upon the turn
pike's side, Their ripened branches to your hand
they bring. I've plucked them oft in boyhood's
early hour, That then I gave such name, and
thought it true; But now I know that other fruit as
sour Grows on what now thou callest me
and you: Yet wilt thou wait, the autumn that
I see Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
H. K. WHITE.
Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the yeere ?
Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with
dew? I will whisper to your eares, The sweets of love are mixt with
The waves beside them danced; but
they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
Swells like the bosom of a man set
free: A wilderness is rich with liberty.
COME, seeling night, Skarf up the tender eye of pitiful
day, And, with thy bloody and invisible
hand, Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great
bond Which keeps me pale! - Light thick
ens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood.
OFT when, returning with her loaded
bill, Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant
nest, By the hard hand of unrelenting
clown Robb'd; to the ground the vain pro
vision falls; Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping Can bear the mourner to the poplar
shade; Where, all abandoned to despair, she
sings Her sorrows thro’ the night; and on
the bough Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall Takes up again her lamentable strain Of winding woe, till, wide around,
the woods Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.
STAR of the flowers, and flower of the
stars, And earth of the earth, art thou ! And darkness hath battles, and light
hath wars That pass in thy beautiful brow.
The eye of the ground thus was
planted by heaven, And the dust was new wed to the
sun, And the monarch went forth, and
the earth-star was given, That should back to the heaven-star
So in all things it is: the first origin
lives, And loves his life out to his flock; And in dust, and in matter, and na
ture, he gives The spirit's last spark to the rock.
J. J. G. WILKINSON.
THou wast not born for death, inn
mortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee
down; The voice I hear this passing night
was heard In ancient days by emperor and
They are gone, they are gone; but I
go not with them, I linger to weep o'er its desolate
Perhaps the selfsame song that found
a path Through the sad heart of Ruth,
when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien
The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening
on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
They say if I rove to the south I
shall meet With hundreds of roses more fair
and more sweet; But my heart, when I'm tempted to
wander, replies, Here my first love, my last love, my
only love lies. When the last leaf is withered, and
falls to the earth, The false one to southerly climes
may fly forth; But truth cannot fly from his sor
rows: he dies, Where his first love, his last love, his only love lies.
P. F. BAYLY.
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH
MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully,
And die away my heart! The rose, the glorious rose, is gone,
And I, too, will depart.
As it fell upon a day
vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear
thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer
The skies have lost their splendor,
The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where the flower-cup's glow? And where the joy of the dancing
leaves, And the fountain's laughing flow? Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou bee, thou lamb at play! Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
Are ye, too, passed away?
With sunshine, with sweet odor,
With every precious thing, Upon the last warm southern breeze,
My soul its flight shall wing:
THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG.
Round my own pretty rose I have
hovered all day, I have seen its sweet leaves one by
one fall away:
Alone I shall not linger
When the days of hope are past, To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.