By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles ; I bubble into eddying bays;

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses ;
And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

STARS.

BARRY CORNWALL.

THEY glide upon their endless way,

Forever calm, forever bright; No blind hurry, no delay,

Mark the Daughters of the Night;
They follow in the track of Day,

In divine delight.
Shine on, sweet-orbed Souls for aye,

Forever calm, forever bright;
We ask not whither lies your way,

Nor whence ye came, nor what your light. Be - still a dream throughout the day,

A blessing through the night.

THE FOUNTAIN.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing

From morn till night!
Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow !

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,

Happy by day!

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one.

anon !

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill ;
The ploughboy is whooping — anon

There's joy on the mountains ;
There's life in the fountains ;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone.

THE SHELL.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SEE what a lovely shell,
Small and pure as a pearl,
Lying close to my foot,
Frail, but a work divine,
Made so fairily well
With delicate spire and whorl,
How exquisitely minute,
A miracle of design!