Louisa.

THOUGH by a sickly taste betrayed,
Some may dispraise the lovely maid,
With fearless pride I say,

That she is healthful, fleet and strong,
And down the rocks can leap along
Like rivulets in May.

And smiles has she to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread and sink and rise;

That come and go with endless play, And ever as they pass away

Are hidden in her eyes.

She loves her fire, her cottage-home,

Yet o'er the moorland will she roam

In weather rough and bleak;

And when against the wind she strains, O might I kiss the mountain-rains

That sparkle on her cheek!

Rustica Phidyle.

Si quis ægrotans animo decoram
Phidylen spernat vitiosiori,

Suscipit gratum mea lingua munus,
Ausa referre,

Illa quam pulcra vigeat juventa;
Quamque veloci pede per profunda
Saxa decurrat, redeunte sicut

Flumina Maio.

Ridet, at quali Dea sola risu;
Qui suas toto veneres in ore
Prodit, alterno refluens fluensque

Molliter æstu ;

Pertinax circumvolitare lusu

Sedulo frontem; aut roseum cubile
Deserens vultus, oculi in protervis
Ignibus abdi.

Parvulo contenta focum paternum,
Et lares notos amat: at procellæ
Immemor grata vice pervagatur
Devia montis;

Dumque ibi in ventos animosa certat, Imbrium gemmas utinam oscularer, Qui genis in purpureis pudica

Luce coruscant !

Take all that's mine beneath the moon,

If I with her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave or mossy nook,

Whene'er she wanders up the brook

To hunt the waterfalls.

Wordsworth.

The Knight's Grave.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?
By the side of a fount on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree.

The oak that in summer was pleasant to hear,
And rustled its leaves at the fall of the year,
And bellowed and whistled in winter alone,

Is gone-in its place the birch tree is grown.
The knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust:

His soul is with the saints I trust!

Coleridge.

Deme quot rerum videt alta Luna,
Sit reclinato mihi cum puella

Sole fervente aut veteris sub antri

Rupe morari;

Aut in umbroso nemorum recessu,

Fertur ut montis per amata rura, aut

Abditos fontes petit in ruentis

Margine rivi.

H. J. H.

Arturi Sepulcrum.

O UBI nunc recubant Arturi nobilis ossa?
O quibus in cippis, aut qua jacet optimus herba
Ille sepulcrali?-muscoso in margine fontis
Sopitur placide gremioque Helvellynis alto;
Et super impubis betullæ virga coruscat.
Quercus enim, æstivo quæ tempore suave sonare,
Auctumnoque gravi foliis crepitare solebat,
Solaque sub brumam rauca mugire querela,
Occidit, et vacuo betulla innascitur arvo.
Pulvere cara viri commiscuit ossa vetustas,
Et fidum scabies ensem damnosa peredit:
Ordinibus spero sanctorum inscribier ipsum!

A. B. H.

Little Bo-peep.

LITTLE BO-peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them:
Let them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,

And dreamt she heard them bleating: But when she awoke, she found it a joke:

Poor Lady! they still were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,

Determin'd for to find them;

She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.

It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray
Unto a meadow hard by,

There she espy'd their tails side by side,

All hung on a tree to dry.

She heav'd a sigh, and wip'd her eye,

And over the hillocks went smack-O,

And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,

To tack each again to its back-O.

Gammer Gurton.