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Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho unto the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh-ho the holly!
This life is most jolly.

II.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho unto the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh-ho the holly!
This life is most jolly.

SHAKESPEARE.

SONNET.

SEPTEMBER.

THE

THE dark green Summer with its massive

hues Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold; A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold The high slope of the ferny hill indues; The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse O'er glimmering rock,smooth lake, and spiked array Of hedgerow thorns, a unity of grey ; All things appear their tangible form to lose In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom

Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil ;
And now the birds their twittering songs resume,
All Summer silent in the leafy dale.
In Spring they piped of love on every tree,
But now they sing the song

of

memory. HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

E walk'd along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd and said,

“ The will of God be done!”

WE

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey ; As blithe a man as you could see

On a Spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills, We travell’d merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

“ Our work," said I, was well begun;

Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought ?”

A second time did Matthew stop ;

And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply:

“ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

“ And just above yon slope of corn

Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the

very

brother.

66 With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave, And, to the churchyard come, stopp'd short

Beside my daughter's grave.

“ Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang ;-she would have been

A very nightingale.
“ Six feet in earth my Emma lay ;

And yet I loved her more,
For so it seem'd, than till that day

I e'er had loved before.

“ And, turning from her grave, I met,

Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming Girl whose hair was wet

With points of morning dew.

" A basket on her head she bare ;

Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight !

“ No fountain from its rocky cave

Ere tripp'd with foot so free;

She seem'd as happy as a wave

That dances on the sea.

“ There came from me a sigh of pain

Which I could ill confine;
I look'd at her, and look'd again :

And did not wish her mine!”

Matthew is in his grave, yet now,

Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

WORDSWORTH.

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A

CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry.”

“Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water ?”. “O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

" And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen

My blood would stain the heather.

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride ;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover ?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go, my chief– I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady.
“ And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry!
So though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”
By this the storm grew loud

apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer. “ O haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather ;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her ;
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover :
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

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