LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And 't is my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and play'd Their thoughts I cannot measure :— It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, WORDSWORTH. DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; Of woody hills some little bubbling spring, Shining along through banks with harebells dyed; And many a bird to warble on the wing, When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. O love of loves!--to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key! Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes cling around their father's knee ; Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come, GEORGE CROLY LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT, NAY, traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands No common soul. In youth by Science nursed, Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow;-'gainst the taint The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene |