'This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain ;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again.'

He turn'd his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, ‘Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

SCOTT.

The Two April Mornings

WE walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun :

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
'The will of God be done!'

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,

We travelled merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun ; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?'

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

'And just above yon slope of corn

Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,

And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang ;-she would have been
A very nightingale.

• Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,

For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,

A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white :

To see a child so very fair

It was a pure delight!

'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

• There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine ;

I looked at her, and looked again,
And did not wish her mine!'

Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

WORDSWORTH.

K

To Helen

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicèan barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
To the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche,

How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!

The Skylark

BIRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

POE.

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away !

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be !
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee !

HOGG.

Fidele

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages :
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat ;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-tone; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Cumnor Hall

SHAKESPEARE.

THE dews of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet Regent of the sky,
Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,

Save an unhappy lady's sighs

That issued from that lonely pile.

'Leicester!' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

'No more thou com'st with lover's speed
Thy once-belovèd bride to see;
But, be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

'Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

'I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And like the bird that haunts the thorn
So merrily sung the livelong day.

'If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl ! it well was prized?

'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather, ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

'Then, Leicester, why,-again I plead,
The injured surely may repine,—
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair Princess might be thine?

'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

'The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go ;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.