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SONG OF THE BROOK.

27

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may gó,

But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles; 1 bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel;

The Question.
I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,

Bare Winter was changed suddenly to Spring, And gentle odors led my steps astray,

Mixed with the sound of waters murmuring, Along a shelvy bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in a

dream. There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies—those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets,

Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth, Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew bush-eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colored May; And cherry-blossoms, and white caps whose wine

Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers azure, black and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge, There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt

with white; And starry river buds among the sedge

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.

1 steal by lawns and grassy plots;

I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which in their natural bowers

Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours

Within my hand; and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it! Oh to whom?

PERCY BYSSHE STELLEY.

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred;
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

to a Mountain Waisy.

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine — no distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom!

ROBERT BURNS.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN

APRIL, 1786.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purple east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm -
Scarce reared above the parent earth

Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and was maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield

O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies !

To the Small Celandine. Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies ; Let them live upon their praises ; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower! I'll make a stir,
Like a sage astronomer.

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Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known

The reason why

Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby
Or, that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read :* That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

ROBERT HERRICK.

Stay, stay
Until the hastening day

Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing :

We die,
As your hours do; and dry

Away
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

To Blossoms.

Waffodils.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast ?

Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night? 'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And, after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

ROBERT HERRICK.

I WANDERED, lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd -

A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I, at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance,
The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company; I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie,

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

To Waffodils.

Fair daffodils! we weep to see

You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attained his noon:

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

31

The purple petals fallen in the pool
Trailing Arbutus.

Made the black waters with their beauty gay-
Darlings of the forest!.

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, Blossoming, alone,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.
When Earth's grief is sorest

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why
For her jewels gone -

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, have blown.

Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !
Tinged with color faintly,

I never thought to ask; I never knew,
Like the morning sky,

But in my simple ignorance suppose
Or, more pale and saintly,

The selfsume Power that brought me there, brought
Wrapped in leaves ye lie —

you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin,
Hymns your solitude ;

Nature.
And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be Because my feet find measure with its call; inore rude.

The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,

For I am known to them, both great and small.
Were your pure lips fashioned

The flower that on the lonely hill-side grows
Out of air and dew,

Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given;
Starlight unimpassioned,

And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, Dawn's most tender hue,

And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for For he who with his Maker walks aright, you

Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
Fairest and most lonely,

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
From the world apart;

Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
Made for beauty only,

And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Veiled from Nature's heart

Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream

JONES VERY. of Art! Were not mortal sorrow

Song of Spring.
An immortal shade,
Then would I to-morrow

Laud the first Spring daisies ;
Such a flower be made,

Chant aloud their praises ;
And live in the dear woods where my lost child- Send the children up
hood played.

ROSE TERRY COOKE. To the high hill's top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.
The Rhodora.

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies; LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER ? Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills: In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Pluck the violets blue,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods

Ah, pluck not a few! Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven To please the desert and the sluggish brook:

the violet instils ?

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