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258 flower I have known from my infancy—their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of our lives. I have seen foreign flowers in hothouses, of the most beautiful nature, but I do not care a straw for them. The simple flowers of our Spring are what I want to see again.”

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

As late I rambled in the happy fields.
Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever

Bards of Passion and of Mirth

Bright star ! would I were steadfast as thou art

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Ever let the Fancy roam

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel . - -
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year .
Full many a dreary hour have I past.

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
Glory and loveliness have passed away
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning .

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs .

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old
Happy is England I could be content
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look .
How many bards gild the lapses of time

In a drear-nighted December
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there

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Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry
Love in a hut, with water and a crust

Many the wonders I this day have seen
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
Muse of my native land loftiest Muse
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No 1 those days are gone away . - -
Now Morning from her orient chamber cam
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
O solitude l if I must with thee dwell
O sovereign power of love O grief O balm
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms .

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness . -
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals
Souls of Poets dead and gone . - - -
St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong

The poetry of earth is never dead
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace
To one who has been long in city pent

Upon a time, before the faery broods

What is more gentle than a wind in summer
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state
What though, while the wonders of nature exploring
When by my solitary hearth I sit - -
When I have fears that I may cease to be .
Woman when I behold thee flippant, vain

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake

*rinted oy R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.

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