WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER

BRIDGE.

Earth has not any thing to shew more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning : silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep !
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Ah me,

the
very

houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still !

WORDSWORTH,

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

The Poet in Despondency.
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their

lair-
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing-
And Winter slumbering in the open air
Wears on his face a dream of spring !
And I the while the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar

flow. Bloom, Oye amaranths, bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my

soul ? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

MUSIC.

LORENZO.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlay'd with patines of bright gold ;
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims.
Such harmony is in immortal souls,
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.-
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn,
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.

JESSICA.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

LORENZO.

The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing

loud,

Which is the high condition of their blood;
If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their

savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and

floods ; Since nought so stockish, liard, and full of rage, But Music for the time doth change his nature : The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus ; Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

SHAKSPERE.

TIME.
“ Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,

Thou aged carle, so stern and grey ?
Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass’d away ?”

160

A LILY BY MOONLIGHT.

“ Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried,

“ So long enjoy’d, so oft misused ; Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desir'd, neglected, and accused ? Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away ; And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay. Redeem mine hours ;—the space is brief,

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief

When time and thou shall part for ever!”

SCOTT.

TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.

Oh, why, thou lily pale, Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, And shed thy rich perfume upon the night?

When all thy sisterhood,

In silken cowl and hood, Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, Fair-hornèd Cynthia wooes thy modest flower,

And with her beaming lips

Thy kisses cold she sips,
For thou art aye her only paramour;
What time she nightly quits her starry bower,

Trick'd in celestial light,
And silver crescent bright.

Oh, ask thy vestal queen,

If she will thee advise,

Where in the blessed skies
That maiden

may

be
seen,

[day, Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the Love-sick and pining for the evening ray;

And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy?

Oh, tell me where she dwells !

So on thy mournful bells
Shall Dian nightly fling
Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume,
Her pale night-lustre to enhance thy bloom,
And find

thee tears to feed thy sorrowing.

ROSCOE.

GOOD MORROW.
You that have spent the silent night

In sleep and quiet rest,
And joy to see the cheerful light

That riseth in the east ;
Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,

Come help me now to sing ;
Each willing wight come bear a part

To praise the heav'nly King.
And you whom care in prison keeps,

Or sickness doth suppress,
Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,

Or dolours do distress ;