SHE LUCY. HE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me! SONNETS. MILTON. MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee; she is a fen Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart. Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. THE WORLD AND NATURE. HE world is too much with us; late and soon, THE Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king Owns not a sylvan bower, or gorgeous cell Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Born 1772. Died 1834. SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. ALAS! they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; Doth work like madness in the brain. With Roland and Sir Leoline. To free the hollow heart from paining- But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, The marks of that which once hath been. A1 LOVE. LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, She leaned against the armèd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story- She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined and ah! She listened with a flitting blush, But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable Knight! And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And how she wept, and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ;— |