We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And ere we came to Leonard's Rock
He sang those witty rhymes

About the crazy old church-clock,

And the bewilder'd chimes.

W. Wordsworth

CCLXXXIII

THE RIVER OF LIFE

'HE more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages:

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye Stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange — yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,

Proportion'd to their sweetness.

T. Campbell

CCLXXXIV

THE HUMAN SEASONS

OUR Seasons fill the measure of the year;

FOU

There are four seasons in the mind of Man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness - to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook :---

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
7. Keats

CCLXXXV

A LAMENT

WORLD! O Life! O Time!

On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more- O never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more- O never more!

P. B. Shelley

MY

CCLXXXVI

Y heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
W. Wordsworth

CCLXXXVII

ODE

ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

THERE

'HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem

Apparell'd in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore ;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose ;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every beast keep holiday;
Thou child of joy

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd boy!

Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning

This sweet May morning;

And the children are pulling

On every side

In a thousand valleys far and wide

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :-
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

But there's a tree, of many, one,

A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?