And where she stayed, a dusky speck
In gorse and heather glory -
A weary spirit watched and read

The pathos of her story;

A spirit doubt-oppressed and worn,
Hath found another more forlorn,

That trustful stayed, nor sought to guess
Life's meanings, which are fathomless,

Through all the summer beauty.

C. Brooke.

YE

FIELD FLOWERS.

E field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:

Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore;

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existen.e's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

Thomas Campbell.

THE VALE OF AVOCA.

HERE is not in this wide world a valley so sweet

THE

As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters

meet;

O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my

heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, O, no! it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were

near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more

dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze
In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams

To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams
Brighten'd the tresses that old poets praise;
Where Petrarch's patient love, and artful lays,
And Ariosto's song of many themes,

Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook,

As close pent up within my native dell,
Have crept along from nook to shady nook,
Where flow'rets blow, and whispering Naiads dwell.
Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide,
O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side.

Hartley Coleridge.

Α'

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ.

LL along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,

All along the valley, where thy waters flow,

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
All along the valley while I walk'd to-day,

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Tennyson.

0

REQUIESCAT IN PACE!

MY heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting: The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way;

And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through

the grating

Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day.

On the wild purple mountains, all alone, with no other, The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed

to be;

And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother,

And till I said "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me.

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them,

Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunderrents and scars,

And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them,

And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars.

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces,

And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar;

Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces,

Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he

wrote no more.