SONG. HEAR, Sweet spirit, hear the spell, And at evening evermore, Shall the chaunters sad and saintly, Doleful masses chaunt for thee, Miserere Domine! Hark! the cadence dies away The boatmen rest their oars and say, S. T. COLERIDGE EXTRACTS FROM WORDSWORTH. I. SHE was a Phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; But all things else about her drawn To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene II. LUCY. 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 "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the Fawn And hers shall be the breathing balm, 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. "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- This heath, this calm and quiet scene; III. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! IV. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea, that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds, that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.- Great God! I'd rather be So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, V. SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss ?-That thought's return VI. WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. EARTH has not any thing to show more fair: All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. |