THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown ;

This child I to myself will take,

She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse, and with me

The girl in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing palm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm,

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her, and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place;

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty, born of murmuring sound,

Shall pass into her face.

Thus Nature spake the work was done

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene,

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

WORDSWORTH.

PLEASING 't is, O modest moon !
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

A TRADITION.

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, "Whence can comfort spring, When prayer is of no avail?"

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the Lady said;

And she made answer, "ENDLESS SORROW!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,

And from the look of the falconer's eye; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly.

-Young Romilly through Barden Woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.

And the pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called THE STRID,

A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.