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Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than

glass Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !

WORDSWORTH.

BALLAD.

S"

HE'S

up
and

gone, the graceless girl!
And robb’d my failing years ;
My blood before was thin and cold,

But now 'tis turn'd to tears;
My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand ;
She might have stay'd a little yet,

And led me by the hand.
Aye, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill;
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,

And plover's answer shrill.
My child is flown on wilder wings

Than they have ever spread ;
And I may even walk a waste

That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,

But never one like mine ;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,

Her drink was rosy wine.

But now she'll share the robin's food,
And

sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will.

HOOD.

HE

a

INCANTATION. (FROM THE TRAGEDY OF REMORSE.”] EAR, sweet spirit, hear the spell,

Lest a blacker charm compel !
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.
And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
Miserere Domine !

Hark! the cadence dies away

On the quiet moonlight sea :
The boatmen rest their oars and say,
Miserere Domine !

COLERIDGE.

SONG.

(FROM " ROKEBY."] WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary

lot is thine; To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine.

A

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,-
No more of me you knew,

My love,
No more of me you knew !

This morn is merry June, I trow;

The rose is budding fain ;-
But she shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.
He turn'd his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore;
He gave

his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, “ Adieu for evermore,

My love !
And adieu for evermore !”

Scott.

(FROM " A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."]

N

Puck.
OW the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon, Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow;

And the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the

graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite,

a

In the church-way paths to glide.
And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecat's team,
From the presence of the sun

Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic: not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house.
I am sent with broom before
To sweep the dust behind the door.

SHAKESPEARE.

WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT

PRINCES.

66

[FROM BYRD's SONGS AND SONNETS OF SADNESS

AND PIETIE.”

E." 1588.]

W

HAT pleasure have great princes,

Completer to their choice,
Than they whose humble chances

In quiet life rejoice,
And fearing not, nor scorning,
Sing sweet in summer morning ?

Their dealings plain and rightful

Are void of all deceit;
They never know how spiteful

It is to kneel and wait
On favourite presumptuous
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their work each tendeth,

At night they take their rest,
More calm than he who sendeth

His ship into the east,—

Where gold and pearl are plenty,
But getting very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading,

They 'steem it not a straw;
They think that honest meaning

Is of itself a law,
Where conscience judgeth plainly,-
So spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth,

Not caring much for gold;
With clothing which sufficeth

To keep him from the cold ;
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet
merry

is he, and quiet.

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.

[OLD BALLAD.] [Adam Fleming, says tradition, loved Helen Irving,

or Bell, (for this surname is uncertain, as well as the date of the occurrence) daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesshire. The lovers being together one day by the river Kirtle, a rival suitor suddenly appeared on the opposite bank and pointed his gun; Helen threw herself before her sweetheart, received the bullet, and died in his arms. Then Adam Fleming fought with his guilty rival and slew him.]

WISH I were where Helen lies !

Night and day on me she cries ;
O that I were where Helen lies,

On fair Kirkconnell lea!

I

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