The newly-risen catch the joyful sound;

They glow, they burn; and now with one accord Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb

Who bled for mortals.

*

*

*

Yet there is peace for man.-Yea, there is peace
Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene;

When from the crowd, and from the city far,
Haply he may be set (in his late walk

O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs
Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone,
And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys

The solemn shadows of the heavens sail,

And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time
Will waft him to repose, to deep repose,
Far from the unquietness of life-from noise
And tumult far beyond the flying clouds,
Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene,
Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no mo

Once more,

O Trent! along thy pebbly marge

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, From the close sick-room newly let at large, Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. O! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright,

The owls dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.

VERSES.

When pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;

To hear the forest bee on wing,

Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;

And who will miss a poet's feet,

Or wonder where he stray:

So to the woods and waste I'll go,

And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:

And in the dark and stormy nights

I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,

Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;
Or, as 'tis drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean;
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,

Beneath her chin was pinned with decent care;
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn,

Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.
Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane;

Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display;
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
While I was first to school reluctant borne:

Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;

And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,

To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. But soon inured to alphabetic toils,

Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;

First at the form, my task forever true,

A little favourite rapidly I grew:

And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;
Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;

Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life,

THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG.

I.

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy!

II.

The winter is cold and I have no vest,

And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,

For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

III.

Yet I once had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale.

IV.

But my father and mother were summon'd away,
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

V.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale;

I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD,
On Recovery from Sickness.

Here would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,

From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foilage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one, perchance, did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate,

For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth-wor