With footing worne, and leading inward 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 never dry;

The builder oake, sole king of forrests all;

The aspine good for staves; the cypresse funerall;

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 Poictiers.

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 Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with fantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane; a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of redbrown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage 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 celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute re

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 turnpike'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

Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude

To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild
is mine;

It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone
spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

H. K. WHITE.

THE PRIMROSE.

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

tears.

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 corn;

The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

KEATS.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did
spring,

Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in
vain,

None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandiva, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing;
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

R. BARNEFIELD.

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:

They are gone, they are gone; but I go not with them,

I linger to weep o'er its desolate

stem.

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 sorrows: he dies,

Where his first love, his last love, his only love lies.

2. H. BAYLY.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATHSONG.

MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully,
And die away my heart!

The rose, the glorious rose, is gone,
And I, too, will depart.

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:

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.