NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE. Up this green woodland side let's softly rove, At morn, at eve-nay, all the live-long day, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn, CLARE. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 't is my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and play'd Their thoughts I cannot measure :— It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? WORDSWORTH. DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; Of woody hills some little bubbling spring, Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ; And many a bird to warble on the wing, When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. O love of loves!-to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key! Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes cling around their father's knee; And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit-I've built a shrine; and thou hast come, And on its altar closed-for ever closed thy plume! GEORGE CROLY |