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Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year

She keeps her shadowy kine ;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

to year,

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood—
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone.

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

S. Dobell.

CCXV.

TO MILTON.

ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour :
England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So did'st thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

W. Wordsworth.

CCXVI.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

HOMER.

UCH have I travelled in the realms of gold,

M

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. Keats.

CCXVII.

BLEST BE THY LOVE.

LEST be Thy love, dear Lord,

That taught us this sweet way,
Only to love Thee for Thyself,
And for that love obey.

A A

O thou, our souls' chief hope!
We to Thy mercy fly;

Where'er we are, Thou can'st protect,
Whate'er we need, supply.

Whether we sleep or wake,
To Thee we both resign;

By night we see, as well as day,
If Thy light on us shine.

Whether we live or die,

Both we submit to Thee;

In death we live, as well as life,
If Thine in death we be.

F. Austin.

CCXVIII.

THE CALL.

WAKE, my soul ! lift up thine eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a numerous host;

Awake, my soul! or thou art lost.

Here giant Danger threatening stands,
Mustering his pale terrific bands;
There Pleasure's silken banners spread,
And willing souls are captive led.

See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousands and ten thousands slain.

Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard every part,
But most, the traitor in thy heart.

Come then, my soul, now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield;
Put on the armour from above
Of heavenly truth and heavenly love.

The terror and the charm repel,

And powers of earth, and powers of hell; The Man of Calvary triumphed here : • Why should His faithful followers fear? A. L. Barbauld.

CCXIX.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

E walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped: he looked, and said,
'The will of God be done!'

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering gray;

As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills,

We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun ;
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?'

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,

And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale ;

And then she sang ;—she would have been

A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay;

And yet I loved her more,

For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

And, turning from the grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head she bare ;

Her brow was smooth and white :

To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

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