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That thought comes next and instantly

The freak is over,
The shape will vanish, and behold !
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold

In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar
And then thou art a pretty star,
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee !
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest
Who shall



Sweet Flower ! for by that at last
When all my reveries are past
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Sweet silent Creature !
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature !

W. Wordsworth



EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness !

Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers ;
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, — thou hast thy music too,
While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

7. Keats





Germany, December, 1800.
HEN first the fiery-mantled Sun

His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue
His children four the Seasons flew :

First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;

Rosy Summer, next advancing
Rush'd into her sire's embrace -
Her bright-hair’d sire, who bade her keep

For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep

Or India's citron-cover'd isles. More remote, and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star ;
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren darkness at his side
Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale — Save when adown the ravaged globe

He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe

And trampling on her faded form ;

Till light's returning Lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his northern field, Of power to pierce his raven plume

And crystal-cover'd shield.

Or sire of storms ! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity -
Archangel ! Power of desolation !

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart :
Then, sullen Winter ! hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year ;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear :
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head

Of Innocence descend,

Bnt chiefly spare, O king of clouds !
The sailor on his airy shrouds,
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,

Or the dark brown Danube roars.
O winds of Winter ! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan ?
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own ? Alas ! e'en your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low; But Man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe.

T. Campbell




FROM Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravell’d,
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell’d ;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
Whate'er betide, we 'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

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'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling !
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

“There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us ;
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ;
There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
Made blythe with plough and harrow :

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