As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
The hooked bramble just as it was strung,
When on each leaf the night her crystals flung,
Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;
Before the golden-beaked blackbird sung,
Or ere the yellow-brooms or gorses rude
Had bared their armed heads in lowly gratitude.

As yet no busy insects buzz about,

No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled.

The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout:
Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold,

And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold.”

"Hark! hark! the lark" sings 'mid the silvery blue,
Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.
She seems the first that does for pardon sue,
As though the guilty stain which lurks below
Had touched the flowers that droop'd above her brow
When she all night slept by the daisies' side;
And now she soars where purity doth flow,
Where new-born light is with no sin allied,

And, pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide.

In belted gold the bees with "merry march"
Through flowery towns go sounding on their way:
They pass the red-streaked woodbine's sun-stained arch
And onward glide through streets of sheeted May,
Nor till they reach the summer roses stay,
Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams,
Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay
That rolls its fragrance o'er the fringed streams,-
Mirrors in which the sun now decks his quivering beams.

And there the hidden river lingering dreams,

You scarce can see the banks which round it lie;
That wither'd trunk a tree or shepherd seems,
Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye.
So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,
They look like clouds shook from the unsunn'd sky,
Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze ;–
The vision fades as they move further on to graze.

A chequer'd light streams in between the leaves,
Which on the green sward twinkle in the sun;
The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves,
And like a silver stream his song doth run
Down the low vale, edged with fir trees dun.
A little bird now hops beside the brook,
Peeping about like an affrighted nun;

And ever as she drinks doth upward look,

Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloister'd nook.

Hark, how the merry bells ring o'er the vale,

Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows.
The red cock sends his voice upon the gale,

From his thatch'd grange his answering rival crows:
The milk-maid o'er the dew-bathed meadow goes,
Her tuck'd-up kirtle ever holding light;

And now her song rings through the green hedge-rows,
Her milk-kit hoops glitter like silver bright:-

--

I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight.

The leaves "drop, drop," and dot the crisped stream
So quick, each circle wears the first away,
Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream
And to the ripple nods its head alway;
The water-flags with one another play,
Bowing to every breeze that blows between,
While purple dragon-flies their wings display:
The restless swallow's arrowy flight is seen
Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green.

I WANDERED LONELY.

More than any other poet, WORDSWORTH saw and sung the soul that is in Nature. All natural objects were to him a source of boundless wonder and delight, and his pulses throbbed in sympathy with them; they were food for thought long after. Thus, having observed the dance of a bed of daffodils, he did not, like most of us, forget them when they were out of sight; they realized to him the saying of Keats, "that a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," and they inspired these verses, in which they will live as long as our language.

I WANDER'D 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 a lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the Milky-way,
They stretch'd 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 the 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.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

The reader, who enjoyed BRYANT'S "Forest Hymn" (ante, p. 40), will be pleased to contrast it with this one, inspired by a very different scene; but the treatment of it is equally appropriate.

NOT in the solitude

Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
Only in savage wood

And sunny vale the present Deity;

Or only hear His voice

Where the winds whisper, and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty!-here, amidst the crowd
Through the great city roll'd,

With everlasting murmur deep and loud

Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round Heaven, and on their dwelling lies,
And lights their inner homes;

For them Thou fill'st with air th' unbounded skies,
And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound-

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng-
Like the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.

And when the hours of rest

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-

The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE DEATH BED.

HOOD's fame was acquired as a comic writer, and he did not succeed in divesting himself of that character, although no man ever composed more powerful serious poetry. How touching is this!

WE watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

THE DREAM OF LOVE.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE, who inherited the genius, as well as many of the human weaknesses, that distinguished his father, and who if he had lived longer might have filled a loftier and larger place in the literature of his country, is the author of this sweet sonnet.

Ir must be so-my infant love must find
In my own heart a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,-
Or rebel-spirit bound within the rind
Of some old wreathed oak, or fast enshrined
In the cold durance of an echoing cave.-
Yet better thus than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind
That decks its temple with unearthly grace.
Together must we dwell, my dream and I.-
Unknown then live, and unlamented die,
Rather than dim the lustre of that face,
Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,
Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.

PRAYER.

To whom is this exquisite poem not familiar? Yet must it be repeated here. A collection of Beautiful Poetry would be incomplete without it. The author is JAMES MONTGOMERY, the sweetest of the religious poets of England.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd or unexpress'd;

The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.