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The Daltodils. I WANDER'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils ;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky-way,
They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company !
I gazed--and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

WORDSWORTH.

To the Blue Anemone.
FLOWER! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose, in beauty's hair,
Still its festal glory wear;
And the willow-leaves droop o'er
Brows which love sustains no more :
But by living rays refined,
Thou, the trembler of the wind,

Thou, the spiritual flower,
Sentient of each breeze and shower,
Thou, rejoicing in the skies,
And transpierced with all their dyes ;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing,
Thou, the poet's type shalt be,
Flower of soul, Anemone !

MRS. HEMANS.

Trees.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some,
And of a wannish grey ; the willow such,
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf;
And ash, far stretching his umbrageous arm.
Of deeper green the elm, and deeper still,
I ord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.
Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun;
The maple and the beech, of oily nuts
Prolific; and the lime, at dewy eve
Diffusing odours ; nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.

COWPER.

II,

And forth they pass, with pleasure forward led,

Joying to hear the sweet birds' harmony, Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dread,

Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky; Much can they praise, the trees so straight and high,

The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,

The builder oak, sole king of forests all;
The aspen, good for staves, the cypress, funeral.

The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors,
And poets sage; the fir, that weepeth still ;

The willow, worn of forlorn paramours;

The yew, obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill ;
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill,
The fruitful olive, and the platane round,
The carver holm, the maple, seldom inward sound.

SPENSER.

III.

TREES, gracious trees !-how rich a gift ye are !

Crown of the earth to human hearts and eyes ! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,

Link'd with your forms, and kindly whisperings rise ! How the whole picture of a childhood lies,

Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till, gazing through them up the summer skies,

As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils—and lo! at nace unfurl'd

The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear ; while, gushing from their long-seal'd urn, Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return, And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.

MRS. HEMANS.

Orchard Blossoms.
Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight

Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough?

Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow Of childhood's morn—the wondering, fresh delight In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright,

A joy of fairy-land ? Doth some old nook,

Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint.streak'd blossoms white

Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,

And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee's dreary chime? O gentle friend !

The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves

Of vernal gifts; Time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring memories to the end.

MRS. HEMANS.

To Blossoms.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here a while
To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.
What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, a while, they glide

Into the grave.

HERRICK.

Foliage.

COME forth, and let us through our hearts receive

The joy of verdure. See ! the honey'd lime
Showers cool green light o'erbanks where wild-flowers weave

Thick tapestry, and woodbine tendrils climb
Up the brown oak, from buds of moss and thyme...
The rich deep masses of the sycamore

Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime;
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,

Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs; the chestnut-flowers are past,

The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose, Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest Nature's hues. .

MRS, HEMANS.

The Voice of the Grass.

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere ;

By the dusty road-side,
On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere,
Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ;

All round the open door
Where sit the aged poor,
Here, where the children play

In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ;

In the noisy city street
My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart,

Toiling his busy part,
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere,

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,
I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

More welcome than the flowers
In summer's pleasant hours ;
The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,
To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

My humble song of praise
Most gratefully I raise
To Him, at whose command

I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

SARAH ROBERTS,

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