THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 'The will of God be done!' A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills We travell'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. 'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought?' 'With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave. 'Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang, she would have been A very nightingale. 'Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more For so it seem'd,-than till that day I e'er had loved before. 'And turning from her grave, I met, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 'A basket on her head she bare; 'No fountain from its rocky cave 'There came from me a sigh of pain I look'd at her, and look'd again: -Matthew is in his grave, yet now As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. W. Wordsworth. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, W. Collins. POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE A BOY'S SONG WHERE the pools are bright and deep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hazel bank is steepest, Why the boys should drive away But this I know, I love to play, J. Hogg. ODE TO THE NORTHEAST WIND WELCOME, Wild Northeaster! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black Northeaster! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day; Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Every plunging pike. Through the black fir forest Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, |