PART SECOND. MISCELLANEOUS POETRY FOR SENIOR PUPILS. 1.-LUCY GRAY.-Wordsworth. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: and, when I crossed the wild, No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor- "To-night will be a stormy night-you to the town must go; Then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; And then an open field they crossed; the marks were still the same; Yet some maintain that to this day she is a l.v.ng _hild— to me. 3 2. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.-Dobell. 66 1 Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, and in what good ship sail'd he ?" 2 My boy, John -he that went to sea; what care I for the ship, sailor? my boy's my boy You come back from sea and not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman, yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish but he knows my John. How's my boy-my boy? and unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor,-blue jacket or no,--brass button or no, sailor,-anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton- Speak low, woman, speak low!" 5 And why should I speak low, sailor, about my own boy, John? If I was loud as I am proud, I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor? "That good ship went down." 6 How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor? I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, sinking or swimming, I'll be bound her owners can afford her! I say, how's my John?. "Every man on board went down, every man aboard her." How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-how's my boy-my boy? tell me of him and no other! how's my boy-my boy? 7 8.-THE MILKMAID.-Lloyd. Once on a time a rustic dame (no matter for the lady's name), wrapt up in deep imagination, indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; while on a bench she took her seat, and plac'd the milk-pail at her feet. Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence-the profits which arose from thence; while fond ideas fill'd her brain of layings up, and monstrous gain, till every penny which she told, creative fancy turn'd to gold; and reasoning thus from computation, she spoke aloud her meditation :- "Please heaven but to preserve my health, no doubt I shall have store of wealth: it must of consequence ensue I shall have store of lovers too. O, how I'll break their stubborn hearts with all the pride of female arts! What suitors then will kneel before me! Lords, Earls, and Viscounts shall adore me. When in my gilded coach I ride,—" my lady!" at his Lordship's side,-how will I laugh at all I meet clattering in pattens down the street! and Lobbin then I'll mind no more, howe'er I lov'd him heretofore; or, if he talks of plighted truth, I will not hear the simple youth, but rise indignant from my seat, and spurn the lubber from my feet." Action, alas !—the speaker's grace,―ne'er came in more improper place; for in the tossing forth her shoe, what fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew! while down at once, with hideous fall, came lovers-wealth—and milk-and all! 4.-SONG OF THE BROOK.-Tennyson. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, I chatter over stony ways in little sharps and trebles; I wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, G 5.-LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.-Keats. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight! alone and palely loitering? Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, so haggard and so woe-begone? I see a lily on thy brow, with anguish moist and fever-dew; "I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful,—a fairy's child; I made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna dew; She took me to her elfin grot, and there she gazed and sighed deep, And there we slumber'd on the moss; and there I dream'd, ah, woe betide, I saw pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors,-death-pale were they all; Who cried, La belle Dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!' I saw their starved lips in the gloom with horrid warnings gaping wide,— And I woke and found me here, on the cold hill-side! And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing!' 6-DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.-Collins. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb, soft maids and village hinds shall bring each opening sweet of earliest bloom, and rifle all the breathing Spring. 2 No wailing ghost shall dare appear to vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; but shepherd lads assemble here, and melting virgins own their love. 3 No wither'd witch shall here be seen; no goblins lead their nightly crew; but female fays shall haunt the green, and dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft, at evening hours, shall kindly lend his little aid, with hoary moss and gather'd flowers, to deck the ground where thou art laid. 5 When howling winds and beating rain in tempests shake the sylvan cell, or 'midst the chase, on every plain the tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore; for thee the tear be duly shed; belov'd, till life can charm no more,-and mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead! 7.-FROM "THE TRAVELLER."-Goldsmith. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd! Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, But me, not destin'd such delights to share, Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; |