Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please,
His head imbibes right reason by degrees;
As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour,
Light constant rain evinces secret power,
And ere the day resumes its wonted smiles,
Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles.
Down with a touch the mellow soil is laid,
And your tall crop next claims his timely aid;
Thither well pleased he hies, assured to find
Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say-past friendship to renew-
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But ruse at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;
And stooping to the child, the old man said:
"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again;
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."
The child approached, and with her fingers light,
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale—thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?
AMELIA ALDERSON, daughter of a doctor in Norwich, married John Opie a celebrated artist, in 1798. Her literary career commenced in 1801, by her publishing a prose tale, and for many years her novels became very popular, and gained her considerable eminence. She also published a volume of poems in 1802. Mrs Opie died in 1853.
THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.
66 STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake;
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
"Poor foolish child, how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.
“The people's shouts were long and loud,
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
'Why are you crying thus,' said I,
'While others laugh and shout with joy?'
She kissed me and with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.
"What is an orphan boy?' I cried,
As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,
'You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!'
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!
"Oh, were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide-
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!-ha!-this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy, orphan boy!"
WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, on the 7th April 1770. His father was in comfortable circumstances, and was able to give the poet a first-rate education. After being some years at Hawkesworth School in Lancashire, he was entered at St John's College, Cambridge, in 1787. After completing his studies, Wordsworth travelled for some time on the Continent on foot, carrying some necessaries in a pocket-handkerchief. The revolutionary mania, then at its crisis, made a deep impression on the poet's sensitive mind, and led him to publish in 1793 "Descriptive Sketches" and "An Evening Walk." In 1795 a friend left him a legacy of L.900, which, with some money received for his works, enabled him to live tolerably for about eight years. In 1798, Wordsworth in conjunction with Coleridge projected "Lyrical Ballads," to which the latter contributed "The Ancient Mariner." The publisher gave thirty guineas for the volume. It appears that the bookseller made a poor speculation with it, so little was the style and subject of the ballad at first appreciated. "The Edinburgh Review" denounced his verses as second-rate nursery rhymes. In 1798 Wordsworth went to Germany
for a few months, and on his return he settled at Grasmere, where he lived for eight years. In 1802 he married Mary Hutchinson, a cousin of his own, and with whom he had been long intimate. It is remarkable that several of Wordsworth's pieces were written many years before they were published, and even after publication some changes were made by him. In 1805 he wrote his "Waggoner," and began "The Prelude;" the former was not published till 1819, and the latter not till after his death. He was jealous of his fame, and afraid of bringing out any poem prematurely; and as his income, though not great, was enough for his wants, he was not driven by necessity to publish. In 1807 appeared two volumes of his poetry, which, though assailed with the severest criticism, began to work their way into the public mind; amid all the imperfections, and sometimes puerilities of his language, there was something so noble and impressive in his worship of the natural, that slowly but surely the influence of his poetry began to impress those who had most mercilessly condemned him. In 1813 he removed from Grasmere to Rydal Mount, where he resided till his death. In 1814 appeared "The Excursion," "brimful of splendid thoughts and beautiful in their drapery of glowing eloquence." Wordsworth about this time obtained through the influence of Lord Lonsdale the situation of distributor of stamps, with a salary of L.300 a year; this, with his literary income, placed him in easy circumstances. He held the post for twenty-eight years. The publications of Wordsworth were now numerous, and up to 1842 consisted of seven volumes in all. In 1843 he was appointed laureate, with a pension of L.300 per annum, succeeding his friend Southey. Wordsworth died on 23d April 1850, full of years and honours. A host of young poets have since arisen who did him homage; and even those who formerly depreciated his poems, now join in the tribute to his genius. "The Prelude," a kind of autobiography begun forty-five years before, was published shortly after his death.
FROM "THE EXCURSION."
THE mountain-ash,
Decked with autumnal berries that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show,
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen,
By a brook-side or solitary turn,
How she her station doth adorn the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brightened round her. In his native vale
Such and so glorious did this youth appear;
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,
By all the graces with which Nature's hand
Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form.
Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade
Discovered in their own despite to sense
Of mortals (if such fables without blame
May find chance-mention on this sacred ground)
So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise,
And through the impediment of rural cares,
In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ;
And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight,
In him the spirit of a hero walked
Our unpretending valley.-How the quoit
Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him,
The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch
Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve,
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field!
The indefatigable fox had learned
To dread his perseverance in the chase.
With admiration he could lift his eyes
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand
Was loath to assault the majesty he loved,
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak
To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead,
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe,
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves,
And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes,
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere,
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim.
FROM "AN EVENING WALK."
FAR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove
Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;
His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes,
Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes,
Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore;
Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads,
To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads;
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;
Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps
'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps;
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore,
And memory of departed pleasures, more.
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