YEW-TREES.

THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
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 magnificent
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

Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved;
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 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 repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

NUTTING.

It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out),
One of those heavenly days which cannot die;
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,

By exhortation of my frugal Dame.

Motley accoutrement-of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Until at length I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene! A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The banquet ;-or beneath the trees I sat
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blessed
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

The violets of five seasons reappear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

And-with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,