AFTER WORDSWORTH

H

ON WORDSWORTH

E lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;

A bard whom there was none to praise

And very few to read.

Behind a cloud his mystic sense,

Deep hidden, who can spy?

Bright as the night when not a star

Is shining in the sky.

Unread his works- his " Milk White Doe"

With dust is dark and dim;

It's still in Longmans' shop, and oh !

The difference to him.

Anonymous.

JACOB

E dwelt among "Apartments let,"
About five stories high;

HE

A man, I thought, that none would
And very few would try.

get,

A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;

But he has got a wife — and O!

The difference to me!

Phabe Cary.

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF
WORDSWORTH

TH

HERE is a river clear and fair,
'Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there—
It winds about like any hare;
And then it holds as straight a course
As, on the turnpike road, a horse,
Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing:

Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,

But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky

Have reared their stately heads so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee-
Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.

For they have gained the river's brink,
And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child —
He is my youngest boy;

To look on eyes so fair and wild,
It is a very joy.

He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,

As fresh and gay as them.

He loiters with the briar-rose,-
The blue-bells are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will,
Why should he not continue still
A thing of Nature's rearing?

A thing beyond the world's control-
A living vegetable soul,

No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see
That child become a willow-tree,
His brother trees among.

He'd be four times as tail as me,

And live three times as long.

Catherine M. Fanshawe.

I

JANE SMITH

JOURNEYED, on a winter's day,
Across the lonely wold;

No bird did sing upon the spray,
And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four,

Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by the side,

And she was pinched and thin. “Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride! I'm fetching mother's gin."

"Enter my coach, sweet child," said I,

"For you shall ride with me;

And I will get you your supply
Of mother's eau-de-vie."

The publican was stern and cold,
And said: "Her mother's score
Is writ, as you shall soon behold,
Behind the bar-room door!"

I blotted out the score with tears,
And paid the money down;
And took the maid of thirteen years
Back to her mother's town.

And though the past with surges wild
Fond memories may sever,

The vision of that happy child

Will leave my spirits never!

Rudyard Kipling

I

ONLY SEVEN

(A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth)

MARVELLED why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,

And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I ask'd her why she cried;

The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!