"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.

“And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

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 nevermore will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1799

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING.

LIFE with yon lambs, like day, is just begun,

Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun

Pale twilight's lingering glooms, and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied;
Or gambol, each with his shadow at his side,

Varying its shape wherever he may run.

As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green,
Where herbs look up and opening flowers are seen,
Why to God's goodness cannot we be true?
And so, His gifts and promises between,
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1838.

WIND ON THE CORN.

ULL often as I rove by path or stile,

FULL

To watch the harvest ripening in the vale, Slowly and sweetly, like a growing smile— A smile that ends in laughter - the quick gale Upon the breadths of gold-green wheat descends; While still the swallow, with unbaffled grace, About his viewless quarry dips and bends And all the fine excitement of the chase Lies in the hunter's beauty: in the eclipse Of that brief shadow, how the barley's beard Tilts at the passing gloom, and wild-rose dips Among the white-tops in the ditches reared: And hedge-row's flowery breast of lace-work stirs Faintly in that full wind that rocks the outstanding firs.

CHARLES TURNER.

THE FELLED OAK:

GRASBY VICARAGE, SEPTEMBER 5, 1874.

WHEN the storm felled our oak, and thou, fair wold,

Wert seen beyond it, we were slow to take

The lesson taught; for our old neighbor's sake,
We found thy distant presence wan and cold,
And gave thee no warm welcome, for whene'er
We tried to dream him back into the place
Where once he stood, the giant of his race,
'T was but to lift an eye and thou wert there,
His sad remembrancer, the monument
That told us he was gone. But thou hast blent
Thy beauty with our loss so long and well,
That in all future grief we may foretell
Some lurking good behind each seeming ill,
Beyond each fallen tree some fair blue hill.

CHARLES TURNER.

A PHOTOGRAPH ON THE RED GOLD.

JERSEY, 1867.

ABOUT the knoll the airs blew fresh and brisk,

And, musing as I sat, I held my watch

Upon my open palm; its smooth bright disk
Was uppermost, and so it came to catch,
And dwarf, the figure of a waving tree,

Backed by the West. A tiny sunshine peeped
About a tiny elm, — and both were steeped
In royal metal, flaming ruddily:

How lovely was that vision to behold!

How passing sweet that fairy miniature,

That streamed and flickered o'er the burning gold!
God of small things and great! do Thou ensure
Thy gift of sight, till all my days are told,
Bless all its bliss, and keep its pleasures pure!

CHARLES TURNER.

THIS gray round world, so full of life,

Of hate and love, of calm and strife,

Still ship-like on for ages fares.

How grand it sweeps the eternal blue!

Glide on, fair vessel, till thy crew

Discern how great a lot is theirs.

JOHN STERLING.

THQU

THE ROBIN.

'HOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinished cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves:

All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy,

That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ,

That else upon thy music borne along

And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer

Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to

share.

JONES VERY.

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY

SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

I

WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile!

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:

I saw thee every day; and all the while

Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!

So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
No mood which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then, if mine had been the painter's hand,
To express what then I saw, and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,

The consecration, and the poet's dream,