Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood- The ancient stile is not alone. 'Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! S. Dobell. CCXV. TO MILTON. ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea; So did'st thou travel on life's common way, W. Wordsworth. CCXVI. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. PUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : When a new planet swims into his ken; 7. Keats. CCXVII. BLEST BE THY LOVE. LEST be Thy love, dear Lord, That taught us this sweet way, A A O thou, our souls' chief hope! Where'er we are, Thou can'st protect, Whether we sleep or wake, To Thee we both resign; Whether we live or die, Both we submit to Thee; In death we live, as well as life, F. Austin. CCXVIII. THE CALL. WAKE, my soul ! lift up thine eyes, Here giant Danger threatening stands, See where rebellious passions rage, Has thousands and ten thousands slain. Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground, Come then, my soul, now learn to wield The terror and the charm repel, A. L. Barbauld. CCXIX. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. E walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped: he looked, and said, 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 travelled merrily, to pass 'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun ; So sad a sigh has brought?' A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain-top, 'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft A day like this, which I have left And just above yon slope of corn With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped 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 seemed, than till that day And, turning from the grave, I met, A basket on her head she bare; It was a pure delight! No fountain from its rocky cave |