PART SECOND.

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY

FOR

SENIOR PUPILS.

1.-LUCY GRAY.-Wordsworth.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: and, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day the solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-you to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow."
"That, Father, will I gladly do! 'tis scarcely after noon—
The minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon!"
At this the Father raised his hook, and snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work; and Lucy took the lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:—with many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,...but never reached the town!
The wretched parents all that night went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor:
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,—a furlong from the door.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"
When in the snow the mother spied the print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed; the marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost, and to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank; and farther there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day she is a l.v.ng _hild—
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind.

to me.

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2. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.-Dobell.

66

1 Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, and in what good ship sail'd he ?" 2 My boy, John -he that went to sea; what care I for the ship, sailor? my boy's my boy You come back from sea and not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman, yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish but he knows my John. How's my boy-my boy? and unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor,-blue jacket or no,--brass button or no, sailor,-anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton- Speak low, woman, speak low!" 5 And why should I speak low, sailor, about my own boy, John? If I was loud as I am proud, I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor? "That good ship went down." 6 How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor? I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, sinking or swimming, I'll be bound her owners can afford her! I say, how's my John?. "Every man on board went down, every man aboard her." How's my boy-my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-how's my boy-my boy? tell me of him and no other! how's my boy-my boy?

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8.-THE MILKMAID.-Lloyd.

Once on a time a rustic dame (no matter for the lady's name), wrapt up in deep imagination, indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; while on a bench she took her seat, and plac'd the milk-pail at her feet. Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence-the profits which arose from thence; while fond ideas fill'd her brain of layings up, and monstrous gain, till every penny which she told, creative fancy turn'd to gold; and reasoning thus from computation, she spoke aloud her meditation :- "Please heaven but to preserve my health, no doubt I shall have store of wealth: it must of consequence ensue I shall have store of lovers too. O, how I'll break

their stubborn hearts with all the pride of female arts! What suitors then will kneel before me! Lords, Earls, and Viscounts shall adore me. When in my gilded coach I ride,—" my lady!" at his Lordship's side,-how will I laugh at all I meet clattering in pattens down the street! and Lobbin then I'll mind no more, howe'er I lov'd him heretofore; or, if he talks of plighted truth, I will not hear the simple youth, but rise indignant from my seat, and spurn the lubber from my feet." Action, alas !—the speaker's grace,―ne'er came in more improper place; for in the tossing forth her shoe, what fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew! while down at once, with hideous fall, came lovers-wealth—and milk-and all!

4.-SONG OF THE BROOK.-Tennyson.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down, or slip between the ridges;
By twenty thorps-a little town-and half a hundred bridges.
Till last through woody dale I flow, to join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go-but I go on for ever!

I chatter over stony ways in little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my bank I fret by many a field and fallow;
And many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow to join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,—but I go on for ever!

I wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak, above the golden gravel;
And draw them all along, and flow to join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,-but I go on for ever!
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, among my skimming swallow
I make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow to join the brimming river :
For men may come, and men may go,-but I go on for ever!

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5.-LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.-Keats.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight! alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, so haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow, with anguish moist and fever-dew;
And on thy cheek, a fading rose fast withereth too.

"I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful,—a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing a fairy song.

I made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna dew;
And, sure, in language strange she said, 'I love thee true!'

She took me to her elfin grot, and there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes,-so, kissed to sleep!

And there we slumber'd on the moss; and there I dream'd, ah, woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd, on the cold hill-side!

I saw pale kings, and princes too, pale warriors,-death-pale were they all; Who cried, La belle Dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloom with horrid warnings gaping wide,— And I woke and found me here, on the cold hill-side!

And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing!'

6-DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.-Collins.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb, soft maids and village hinds shall bring each opening sweet of earliest bloom, and rifle all the breathing Spring. 2 No wailing ghost shall dare appear to vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; but shepherd lads assemble here, and melting virgins own their love. 3 No wither'd witch shall here be seen; no goblins lead their nightly crew; but female fays shall haunt the green, and dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft, at evening hours, shall kindly lend his little aid, with hoary moss and gather'd flowers, to deck the ground where thou art laid. 5 When howling winds and beating rain in tempests shake the sylvan cell, or 'midst the chase, on every plain the tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore; for thee the tear be duly shed; belov'd, till life can charm no more,-and mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead!

7.-FROM "THE TRAVELLER."-Goldsmith.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Schelde, or wandering Po;
Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell❜d fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:
Blest be that spot where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair:

Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd!
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care;
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down, a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac'd on high, above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear:
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?