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Yet in childhood little prized I
That fair walk and far survey;

'Twas a straight walk, unadvised by
The least mischief worth a nay-

Up and down-as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!

But the wood, all close and clenching,

Bough in bough, and root in root-
No more sky, for over-branching,
At your head than at your foot-

Oh! the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.
Few and broken paths showed through it,
Where the sheep had tried to run-

Forced with snowy wool to strew it
Round the thickets, when anon

They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back unto the sun.

But my childish heart beat stronger
Than those thickets dared to grow:
I could pierce them! I could longer
Travel on, methought, than so!

Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they

would go.

And the poets wander, said I,

Over places all as rude!

Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady

Sat to meet him in a wood

Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude.

And if Chaucer had not traveled

Through a forest by a well,

He had never dream'd nor marveled

At those ladies fair and fell

Who lived smiling, without loving, in their island citadel.

Thus I thought of the old singers,

And took courage from their song,
Till my little struggling fingers
Tore asunder gyve and thong

Of the lichens which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong.

On a day, such pastime keeping,
With a fawn's heart debonnaire,

Under-crawling, over-leaping

Thorns that prick and boughs that bear,

I stood suddenly astonished-I was gladdened unaware!

From the place I stood in floated
Back the covert dim and close,

And the open ground was coated

Carpet-smooth with grass and moss,

And the blue-bell's purple presence signed it worthily across.

Here a linden-tree stood brightening

All adown its silver rind;

For as some trees draw the lightning,

So this tree, unto my mind,

Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined.

Tall the linden-tree, and near it
An old hawthorn also grew;
And wood-ivy, like a spirit,

Hovered dimly round the two,

Shaping thence that bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you.

'Twas a bower for garden fitter

Than for any woodland wide!
Though a fresh and dewy glitter

Struck it through, from side to side,

Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.

Oh, a lady might have come there,

Hooded fairly, like her hawk,
With a book or lute in summer,

And a hope of sweeter talk

Listening less to her own music, than for footsteps on the walk.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

MIST OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.

Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray,
The dream of my early day fleeted away;
Now the evening of life with its shadows steal on,
And memory reposes on years that are gone!

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears—
A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears-
Though checker'd and sad, and mistaken you've been,
Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen!

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown,
And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone;
In vain would I ask of the future to bring
The verdure that gladden'd my life in its spring!

I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew

The pine-crowned hill where the heather-bells blewThe trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet, The wild flowers that gleamed on the red-deer's retreat!

I look for the mates full of ardor and truth,

Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth-
They passed ere the morning of hope knew its close-
They left me to sleep where our fathers repose!

Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot's blaze,
Where circled the legend and song of old days?
The legend 's forgotten, the hearth is grown cold,
The home of my childhood to strangers is sold !

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way,
I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey

Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore,

Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1798-1835.

EMBLEM.

A FLOWER GARDEN WITH SUNSHINE AND RAIN.

When all the year our fields are fresh and green,
And while sweet flowers and sunshine every day,
As oft as need requireth, come between
The heav'ns and earth, they heedless pass away.
The fullness and continuance of a blessing
Do make us to be senseless of the good;

And if it sometime fly not our possessing,

The sweetness of it is not understood.

Had we no winter, summer would be thought
Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not,
Such comforts could not by a calm be brought;
For things, save by their opposites, appear not.
Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some;
And so is ease, and every other pleasure,

Till poor, or rich, or grieved they become;
And then they relish these in ampler measure.
God, therefore, full as kind as he is wise,
So tempereth all the favors he will do us,

That we his bounties may the better prize,
And make his chastisements less bitter to us.

One while a scorching indignation burns
The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away,
Which into scarcity our plenty turns,
And changeth unmown grass to parched hay;
Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews,
Commixt with cheerful rays, he sendeth down;

And then the barren earth her crop renews,
Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown:
For, as to relish joys he sorrow sends,
So comfort on temptation still attends.

GEORGE WITHER, 1588-1667.

SONG.

Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop Heber.

Oak, that stately and alone

On the war-worn mound hast grown,
The blood of man thy sapling fed,

And dyed thy tender root in red;
Woe to the feast where foes combine,
Woe to the strife of words and wine!

Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year,
'Mid whisp'ring rye-grass tall and sere,
The coarse rank herb, which seems to show
That bones unbless'd are laid below;
Woe to the sword that hates its sheath,
Woe to th' unholy trade of death!

Oak, from the mountain's airy brow,
Thou view'st the subject woods below,
And merchants hail the well-known tree,
Returning o'er the Severn sea.

Woe, woe to him whose birth is high,

For peril waits on royalty!

Now storms have bent thee to the ground,

And envious ivy clips thee round;
And shepherd hinds in wanton play
Have stripped thy needful bark away;
Woe to the man whose foes are strong,
Thrice woe to him who lives too long!

REGINALD HEBER.

ROBERT OF NORMANDY, about 1107.

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