THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS

WE walk'd along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 'The will of God be done!'

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;

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,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

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,
Beside the church-yard yew,

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

'A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!

'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripp'd with foot so free;
She seem'd as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

'There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;

I look'd at her, and look'd again:
And did not wish her mine!'

-Matthew is in his grave, yet now
Methinks I see him stand

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 all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

W. Collins.

POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE

A BOY'S SONG

WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,

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 nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little maidens from their play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay:
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

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!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness

Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.

Through the black fir forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! the brave Northeaster!

Breast-high lies the scent,

On by holt and headland,

Over heath and bent.

Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow,