Full of sweet dreams, and health and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

JOHN KEATS.

A

FROM "DEJECTION: AN ODE.”

GRIEF without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,

To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green:

And still I gaze and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars ;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen :
Yon crescent moon as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:

I

may not hope from outward forms to win

The passion and the life,whose fountains are within.

O Lady! we receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does Nature live :

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allowed

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth —

And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

SAMUEL TAYLOK COLERIDGE.

TO A SKYLARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain, ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine ;

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine ;

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

IT

T is a beauteous evening, calm and free ;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea.
Listen the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1802.

THE

HE evening breeze is blowing from the lea
Upon the fluttering elm; thou hast a mind,

O star! methinks, to settle in the tree

But, ever baffled by the pettish wind,

Thou movest back and forward, and I find
A pastime for my thoughts in watching thee;
In thy vast orbit thou art rolling now,

And wottest not how to my human eye
Thou seemest flouted by a waving bough,

Serving my fancy's needs right pleasantly;
Thou wottest not- but He who made thee knows
Of all thy fair results both far and near,
Of all thine earthly, all thine heavenly shows -
The expression of thy beauty there and here.

CHARLES TURNER.

"THREE YEARS SHE GREW."

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 balm,
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.