Watch when the sky is silver pale at even,
And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree;
Go out beneath the solitary heaven,
And think of me!

When the moon riseth as if she were dreaming, And treadeth with white feet o'er the lulled sea, Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming,

And think of me!

THE SUMMER EVENING.

JOHN CLARE.

THE sinking sun is taking leave,
And sweetly gilds the edge of eve,
While huddling clouds of purple dye
Gloomy hang the western sky;
Crows crowd croaking over head,
Hast'ning to the woods to bed.
Cooing sits the lonely dove,
Calling home her absent love.
From the haycock's moisten'd heaps
Startled frogs take vaulting leaps;
And along the shaven mead,
Jumping trav❜llers, they proceed :
Quick the dewy grass divides,
Moist❜ning sweet their speckled sides.
From the grass or floweret's cup,
Quick the dew-drop bounces up.
Now the blue fog creeps along,
And the bird's forgot his song:
Flowers now sleep within their hoods,
Daisies button into buds ;

From soiling dew the butter-cup
Shuts his golden jewels up;
And the rose and woodbine they
Wait again the smiles of day.
'Neath the willow's wavy boughs,
Dolly, singing, milks her cows;
While the brook, as bubbling by,
Joins in murm'ring melody.
Dick and Dob, with jostling joll,
Homeward drag the rumbling roll;
Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait,
Lolls him o'er the pasture gate.
Swains to fold their sheep begin;
Dogs loud barking drive them in.
Hedgers now along the road
Homeward bend beneath their load;
And, from the long-furrow'd seams,
Ploughmen loose their weary teams:
Ball, with urging lashes meal'd,
Still so slow to drive afield,

Eager blund'ring from the plough,
Wants no whip to drive him now;
At the stable door he stands,
Looking round for friendly hands
To loose the door its fast'ning pin,
And let him with his corn begin.

1

The night-wind now, with sooty wings,
In the cotter's chimney sings;
Now, as stretching o'er the bed,
Soft I raise my drowsy head,
List'ning to the ushering charms

That shake the elm tree's massy arms:
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,
Deeper darkness stealing round,
Then, as rock'd, I sink to sleep,

Mid the wild wind's lulling sound.

LINES WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

MRS HEMANS.

O, WAND'RER! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;

And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amid wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature's voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of

power, And spirits of the deep awake,

And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks, and ocean-caves around,
Reverberate each awful sound;

That mighty voice, with all its dread control,

To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave,

When peace
is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Sooth'd by their softly-mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint, low rippling of the seas,—
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.

Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceiv'd, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?

Or have thy fond affections fled

From earth, to slumber with the dead?
Oh! pause a while-the world disown,
And dwell with Nature's self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul's departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o'er,

Beyond her magic to restore;

Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, And sooth the wounded heart they cannot heal.

MARY'S DREAM.

LOWE.

THE moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from its eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When soft and low a voice was heard
Say, "Mary, weep no more for me."

She from the pillow gently rais'd

Her head, to ask who there might be,
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,
With visage pale and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea,
Far, far from thee, I sleep in death,

So Mary, weep no more for me.

"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain :
Ev'n then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest,

So Mary, weep no more for me.

"O Maiden dear, thyself prepare,
We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more."
Loud crew the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me."

SONG.

TOWNSEND.

IF, in Enchanter's shadowy hall
I stood, endued with power to call
Before my view one form alone,

Of all that live in every clime,

Or e'er have liv'd in elder time,

And hold high converse, till one hour was flown;

What god, what hero of old days,

Say, should I summon to my gaze?

What charms that set the world on fire?

Or, with what voice of eloquence

Should I delight my tranced sense,

Or with what deathless poet's heav'n-strung lyre?