From "Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems," by WORDSWORTH.

WHILE from the purpling east departs
The Star that led the dawn,

Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

For May is on the lawn.

A quickening hope, a freshening glee,

Foreran the expected Power,

Whose first-drawn breath from bush and tree,

Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway,

Tempers the year's extremes,

Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,

The tremulous heart excite;

And hums the balmy air to still

The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when Youths and Maids

At

peep of dawn would rise,

And wander forth, in forest glades

Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song-to grace the rite

Untouched the hawthorn bough,

Thy Spirit triumphs e'er the slight;

Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ ;

Warmed by thy influence, creeping Things

Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay Plant

Where the slim wild Deer roves;

And served in depths where Fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing Peak, and trackless Heath,
Instinctive homage pay

Nor wants the dim-lit Cave a wreath
To honour Thee, sweet May!
Where Cities fanned by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest Flower-pot-nursling dares
To open a bright eye.

And if, on this, thy natal morn,
The Pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
Of song, and dance, and game,
Still from the village-green a vow
Aspires to thee addrest,
Wherever peace is on the brow,
Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
The soul to love the more;
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.

Stript is the haughty One of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
In flows the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse
The service to prolong!
To yon exulting Thrush the Muse
Intrusts the imperfect song;

His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
Throughout the live-long day,

Till the first silver Star appear,
The sovereignty of May.

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN.

By the Same.

Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early moru,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burthen be not light
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.
Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot?
An Altar is in each man's cot,

A Church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun
Already half his race hath run;
He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal Spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the East,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course:

Help with thy grace, through life's short day
Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE
SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.

By the Same.

SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills,
Among the happiest-looking Homes of men
Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,

And o'er wide plains whereon the sky distils

IN THE

Her lark's loved warblings; does aught meet your ken More fit to animate the Poet's pen,

Aught that more surely by its aspect fills

Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode

Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours

To his high charge, and truly serving God,

Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,

Enjoys the walks his Predecessors trod,

Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.

FANCY AND TRADITION.

By the Same.

THE Lovers took within this ancient grove
Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,
Not mute, where now the Linnet only sings:
Thus every where to truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localises Powers we love.
Were only History licensed to take note
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments
Would ill suffice for persons and events:
There is an ampler page for man to quote,
A readier book of manifold contents,
Studied alike in palace and in cot.

SONNET,

COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY.

By the Same.

"PEOPLE! your chains are severing link by link;
Soon shall the Rich be levelled down-the Poor
Meet them half way." Vain boast! for These, the more
They thus would rise, must low and lower sink,
Till, by repentance stung, they fear to think;
While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few
Bent in quick turns each other to undo,

And mix the poison they themselves must drink.
Mistrust thyself, vain Country! cease to cry
"Knowledge will save me from the threatened woe."
For, if than other rash ones more thou know,
Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly
Above thy knowledge as they dared to go,
Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty.

[IN DE X.

INDE X.

[N. B. The figures within crotchets refer to the History.]