WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1800.

Mr. Wordsworth resides at Grassmere. He is reported to possess a beautiful wife, a Yorkshire lady, his union with whom was characterised by that eccentric enthusiasm which constitutes the charm of his poetry.

THREE

years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown:

This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

Her Teacher I myself will be,
She is my darling ;-and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

She shall be sportive as the Fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

The floating Clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Ev'n in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place,

Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty, born of murmuring Sound,
Shall pass into her face.

And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give,
While she and I together live
Here in this happy Dell.

Thus Nature spake-The work was done-
How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died and left to me

This heath; this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be!

SHE dwelt among the' untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise,
A very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the Eye!

- Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She liv'd unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceas'd to be;

But she is in her Grave, and, Oh!

The difference to me.

N. S. S. L.

1800.

All that can be related respecting the following exquisite productions of the amatory muse, must excite, instead of gratifying curiosity. They were inserted in a Novel, that never experienced the attention its merits deserved, and are believed to have been written by a very beautiful and highly accomplished young Lady, perhaps still residing in the vicinity of Southampton. Who will not regret, that the author of such poems has thought fit to shade herself under the veil of obscurity? As effusions of genuine passion and refined sensibility, they are not surpassed either by her predecessors or contemporaries.

AWAKE, my Harp, some joyful measure!
No longer breathe a pensive strain ;
Be, like my soul, attun'd to pleasure,
And never mourn again.

Awake, my Harp, some joyful measure!
'Twas Love that taught thy strings to move;
And love now fills my soul with pleasure—
Then hymn the charms of Love!

O Love! some call thy musings folly,
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind;
But thou, methinks, art pure and holy,
Exalted, rais'd, refin'd.

And some there are who can dissemble
The raptures of thy ardent flame;
And some poor maidens start and tremble,
If they but hear thy name.

Ah! though thy charms were all illusion,
Such dear deceits I still would seek!
Thy mantling blush, thy soft confusion,
Thy looks that more than speak.

Thou know'st, O Love! how I have blest thee,
How oft for thee my heart hath beat;
How oft in sorrow I've carest thee,
And thought thy sorrow sweet.

O Love! some call thy musings folly;
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind;
But thou, methinks, art pure and holy,
Exalted, rais'd, refin'd!

ELEGY.

ALAS! my friend, how vainly dost thou tell
me,
That Reason may tranquillity restore,
And with her soft persuasive voice impel me
To check my sorrows, and to sigh no more.
Ah! rather I would ask that lenient pow'r,
Oblivious Time, some solace to impart,
Did I not feel that each revolving hour

Binds him more firmly to my aching heart:

Or I would court the silken smiles of Pleasure,
Athwart my path a cheering beam to throw ;
But, no! her once-lov'd sounds, in sprightly measure,
Seem all discordant to the ear of Woe.

Nor mirth, nor distant space, nor change of season,
My bosom's secret anguish can remove;

All, all are vain,-but chief thy boasted Reason,
For it was she, alas! that bade me love.

His virtues, graces, genius, she repeated,
And much I gloried in the heart I won;
Nor did I blush though easily intreated;

I scarce had seen him ere I lost my own.
For to my soul she brought the sweet conviction,
That he was noble, generous, and refin'd:
Such as bright Fancy oft pourtrays in fiction,
With every charm to fascinate the mind.

Then Reason whisper'd he could ne'er deceive me,
Or with feign'd vows of tenderness beguile;
And little reck'd I that it e'er would grieve me

To catch his looks of love, his heavenly smile.

Even now when adverse Fortune bids us sever,
Amid my sighs and tears she brings relief:
She tells me, that his heart is mine for ever,
And that his virtues sanctify my grief.

Thus the heart-rending pangs of secret sadness,
Reason has nurtur'd, but can ne'er remove:
No! she must die with grief, or rave in madness,
Ere for a moment I can cease to love!

ELEGY.

'Twas sweet as violet-breathing gale,
'Twas soothing as the moon's faint beam,
'Twas tender as the ring-dove's tale,—

Alas! and was it but a dream?

Methought I saw him once again,
Again I listen'd to his voice;
It calm'd the tumults of my brain,
It made my throbbing heart rejoice.