Though babbling only, to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery.

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial faery place;
That is fit home for thee!

A NIGHT-PIECE.

THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock, plant,

tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards: he looks up-the clouds are split

Asunder, and above his head he sees The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives;-how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not !-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant ;-and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

WATER-FOWL.

"Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolutions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the close of winter."-Extract from the Author's Book on the Lakes.

MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood, With grace of motion that might scarcely Inferior to angelical, prolong [seem Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air (And sometimes with ambitious wing that

soars

High as the level of the mountain tops)
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath,
Their own domain ;- but ever, while intent
On tracing and retracing that large round,
Their jubilant activity evolves

Hundreds of curves and circles, to and fro,
Upward and downward, progress intricate
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
Their indefatigable flight.-'Tis done-
Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;
But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending;-they approach-I hear their
wings
[sound
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager
Past in a moment--and as faint again!
They tempt the sun to sport amid their

plumes;

To show them a fair image ;-'tis themThey tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, [plain,

selves,

Painted more soft and fair as they descend
Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering
Almost to touch ;-then up again aloft,
Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and
rest!

YEW-TREES.

THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary tree !-a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of

note

Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks !-and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,-
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane;-a pillared
shade,
[hue,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown
By sheddings from the pining umbrage
tinged

Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling
Hope,

Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow,-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

comes forth

Gigantic mountains rough with crags;

beneath,

[base, Right at the imperial station's western Main Ocean, breaking audibly and

stretched

Far into silent regions blue and pale ;-
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle,
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly,
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that
streak

Her habitable shores; but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator's feet. -Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the frame of Erin's coast?
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.*

THIS height a ministering angel might
select.
[name
For from the summit of Black Comb (dread
Derived from clouds and storms!) the
amplest range

Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands :--low
dusky tracts,
[Cambrian hills
Where Trent is nursed, far southward!
To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and
Clyde-

Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland; its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain.

NUTTING.

It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die;

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my
steps

Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast off weeds

Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame. Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and in truth, [woods, More ragged than need was! Among the And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,

Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough

As joy delights in; and with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet, -or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I
played;

A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. -
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose
leaves

stones

The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye; ·
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady
[trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of
sheep,
[sound,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to
pay

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and
bough, with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the
past,
[away
Even then, when from the bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.-
Then, dearest maiden! move along these

shades

In gentleness of heart with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and
smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
The reason firm, the temperate will,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart :- [pierce;
These notes of thine-they pierce and
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day;
Yet to be come at by the breeze;
His voice was buried among trees,
He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed ;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang
of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the song-the song for me!

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

A lady of my own.

Whence, then, could it come-the thought--| By what evil spirit brought?

Oh! can a brave man wish to take [sake? His brother's life, for land's and castle's "Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert,

Deep he lies in Jordan's flood,"
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."-Oh! that I
Could have seen my brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.
Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his castle Hubert sped;

He has nothing now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;

For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee :
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;

And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the horn,
Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn.

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace !
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown
He is helpless and alone :

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be

lord.

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot ;
And if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs :
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned, [sound.
Sounded the horn which they alone could

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
And coats enough to smother nine.
He has a blanket on his back,

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.