DAFFODILS.

WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd

A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I, at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

D

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation!

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly.
Before the uprisen sun-God's lidless eye-
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high!

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,

Which God hath planned,

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply—
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome the sky.

There-as in solitude and shade I wander
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

The ways of God

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor
"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,"
O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender
Your lore sublime!

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers !"

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist!
With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all.

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth.
Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!
HORACE SMITH.

AMERICAN SKIES.

'HE sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,
May thy blue pillars rise :-

I only know how fair they stand
About my own beloved land.

And they are fair: a charm is theirs,

That earth-the proud, green earth—has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs,

That haunt her sweetest spot.
We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere,
And read of heaven's eternal year.

Oh! when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,
How willingly we turn us then,

Away from this cold earth,
And look into thy azure breast,
For seats of innocence and rest.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE CLOSE OF SPRING.

'HE garlands fade that spring so lately wove;
Each simple flower, which she had nursed
in dew,

Anemonies that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.
Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair

Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colors fade away!

Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ;
Ah! why has happiness no second spring?
Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,

And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers; Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he a while may lose; So have I sought thy flowers, fair poesy!

So charmed my way with friendship and the muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come; Her pencil sickening fancy throws away, And weary hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre care pursues no more! CHARLOTTE Smith.

THE WOOD-NYMPH.

HY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen,
Lament that here, in this half desert scene,
My lot is placed?

At least the poet-winds are bold and loud—

At least the sunset glorifies the cloud,

And forests old and proud

Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste.

Nature, though wild her forms, sustains me still;
The founts are musical-the barren hill

Glows with strange lights;

Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet Sparkling, as if a naiad's silvery feet,

In quick and coy retreat,

Glanced through the star-beams on calm summer rights;

And the great sky, the royal heaven above,
Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love;

While far remote,

Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire, Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir,

Their innocent love's desire

Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat.

NATURE'S CHAIN.

OOK round our world; behold the chain of love
Combining all below and all above,
See plastic nature working to this end,
The single atoms each to other tend,
Attract, attracted to, the next in place,
Forined and impelled its neighbor to embrace.
See matter next, with various life endued,
Press to one centre still, the general good.
See dying vegetables life sustain,
See life dissolving vegetate again:

All forms that perish other forms supply,
(By turns we catch the vital breath, and die);
Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne,
They rise, they break, and to that sea return.
Nothing is foreign; parts relate to whole;
One all-extending, all-preserving soul
Connects each being, greatest with the least;
Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ;
All served, all serving; nothing stands alone;
The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown.
ALEXANDER Pope.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

'HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice?
Why with that boding cry
O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O, rather, bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light,
Where birds of summer sing.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

THE SWALLOW.

OME summer visitant, attach

To my reed-roof thy nest of clay,
And let my ear thy music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the gray dawn of day.

As fables tell, an Indian sage,

The Hindustani woods among,
Could in his desert hermitage,
As if 't were marked in written page,
Translate the wild bird's song.

I wish I did his power possess,

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess, And know from what wild wilderness Thou camest o'er the sea.

CHARLOTTE Smith.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

ERRILY swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there never was a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings :

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS.

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat :

Bob o'-link, bob o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man ;
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house with a frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell

Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

OME here, come here, and dwell
In forest deep!

Come here, come here, and tell
Why thou dost weep!

Is it for love (sweet pain !)

That thus thou dar'st complain

Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, Where nought else grieves?

Come here, come here, and lie

By whispering stream!

Here no one dares to die

For love's sweet dream;

But health all seek, and joy,

And shun perverse annoy,

And race along green paths till close of day, And laugh-alway!

Or else, through half the year,

On rushy floor,

We lie by waters clear,
While sky-larks pour
Their songs into the sun!

And when bright day is done,

We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream-till morn!

BRYAN WALLER Proctor (Barry Cornwall).

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

O you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, "I love, and I love!"

e winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;

at it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

I singing and loving-all come back together. the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, green fields below him, the blue sky above, the sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, Love my love, and my love loves me."

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THE BOBOLINK.

AYEST songster of the spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows,
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern summer's o'er
By Delaware or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.
Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness!

And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,

Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

S

WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

W

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE REDBREAST.

HEN that the fields put on their gay attire,
Thou silent sittest near brake or river's brim,
Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert
dim;

But when pale winter lights the social fire,

And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire, Thou charmest us with thy soft and solemn hymn, From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim;

And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire,

Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch

The pittance due to thy well-warbled song: Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,

Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch, Full many a tale have told and ditty long.

JOHN BAMPFylde.