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Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence-wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service : rather say
With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

WORDSWORTH.

Remembrance of Grasmere.

! O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn

Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest barmonies. Fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star! :
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene !
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and
prayer.

MRS. HEMANS.

2 " place of restling green for Poets made." I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still That the sweet buds which, with a modest pride, Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious hending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And ta per fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : They will be found softer than ringdoves cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend ! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass Slowly across the checker'd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand !
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain ;
But turn your eye, and they are there again,
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the emerald tresses ;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live :
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches : little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
What next ? a tuft of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it doses ;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the lenp
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of divers moths that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.

KEATS.

Loch Katrine,
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy ;
The mountain-shadows on her breast
Were neither broken nor at rest ;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to Fancy's eye,
The water-lily to the light
Her chalice rear'd of silver bright;

The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn;
The grey mist left the mountain-side,
The torrent show'd its glistening pride ;
Invisible in flecked sky,
The lark sent down her revelry;
The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ;
In answer coo'd the cushat-dove
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

SCOTT.

The Banks of the Tyne.

O YE dales Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where Oft, as the giant flood obliquely strides, And his banks open and his lawns extend, Stops short the pleased traveller to view, Presiding o'er the scene, some rustic tower Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands : O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook The rocky pavement and the mossy falls Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream! How gladly I recall your well-known seats Beloved of old, and that delightful time When all alone, for many a summer's day, I wander'd through your calm recesses, led In silence by some powerful hand unseen. Nor will I e'er forget you ; nor shall e'er The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim Those studies which possess'd me in the dawn Of life, and fix'd the colour of my mind For every future year: whence even now From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn, And, while the world around lies overwhelm'd In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts Of honourable fame, of truth divine Or moral, and of minds to virtue won By the sweet magic of harmonious verse.

· AKENSIDE

Written bhile Sailing in a Boat at Ebening.
How richly glows the water's breast

Before us, tinged with evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent course pursues !
And see how dark the backward stream!

A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

WORDSWORTE.

The pleasures of a Forest Life. MARIAN, thou seest, though courtly pleasures want; Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant: For the soul-ravishing delicious sound Of instrumental music we have found The winged quiristers, with divers votes Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats, On every branch that compasseth our bower, Without command contenting us each hour. For arras hangings and rich tapestry We have sweet Nature's best embroidery. For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont'st to look, Thy crystal eyes gaze in a crystal brook. At court a flower or two did deck thy head, Now with whole garlands it is circled ; For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers; And what we lose in halls we find in bowers.

SKELTON.

The Forest at Noonday.

THE noorday sun
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,
Scoop'd in the dark base of those aëry rocks,
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever.

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