Six thousand veterans practised in war's game .
Small service is true service while it lasts.
Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played
Stay near me-do not take thy flight!
Stern daughter of the voice of God
Strange fits of passion have I known

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower

Tax not the royal saint with vain expense

The cock is crowing.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink

The gallant youth, who may have gained.
The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
The little hedgerow birds

The minstrels played their Christmas tune

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute
The post-boy drove with fierce career
The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire

The world is too much with us; late and soon

There is a flower, the lesser celandine

There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton vale

"There!" said a stripling, pointing with meet pride
There's not a nook within this solemn pass
There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
There was a roaring in the wind all night
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
These times touch monied worldlings with dismay
These tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
They dreamt not of a perishable home

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Though many suns have risen and set

Three

she grew years

in sun and shower

Too frail to keep the lofty vow.

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high.
Two voices are there; one is of the sea

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books
Up with me! up with me into the clouds !

Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent

Wansfell! this household has a favoured lot

We talked with open heart, and tongue
We walked along, while bright and red

What crowd is this? what have we here ! we must not pass it by
"What is good for a bootless bene?"

What lovelier home could gentle fancy choose?
"What, you are stepping westward?"-"Yea
When first, descending from the moorlands
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When Ruth was left half desolate

When, to the attractions of the busy world
Where are they now, those wanton boys?
Where art thou, my beloved son

Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
Where will they stop, those breathing powers
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
Why, William, on that old grey stone
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
Wisdom and spirit of the universe!
Within our happy castle there dwelt one
With sacrifice, before the rising morn

.

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! .

.

285

18

45

220

146

313

210

23

270

282

48

218

186

THE END.

Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.

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