WORDSWORTH. LUCY. Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn The floating Clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see, Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, Thus Nature spake-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. TO A LADY. Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shall see Thy own delightful days, and be A light to young and old. There healthy as a shepherd-boy, Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, But an old age serene and bright, Shall lead thee to thy grave. SCOTT. THE LAST MINSTREL. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy; The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry. For, well ay! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn, No longer courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone, Had called his harmless art a crime, He passed where Newark's stately tower The embattled portal-arch he passed, The duchess marked his weary pace, When kindness had his wants supplied, |