She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

THREE YEARS SHE GREW.

THREE

William Wordsworth.

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; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of mine own.

"Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

"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
In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake· The work was done

How 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.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

Sir Henry Wotton.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes,
More by your number, than your light,

You common people of the skies;

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise, When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

HARK! HARK! THE LARK!

From CYMBELINE.

William Shakespeare.

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gates sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

From As YOU LIKE IT.

William Shakespeare.

UNDER the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.