Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching

All thy restless yearnings it would still, Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no silken chord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,
No fond voices answer to thine own,
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, Not by works that win thee world renown,

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning

When all nature hails the Lord of light, And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning,

Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine,
But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier, - - all the world is thine.

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,

Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.

Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed
From earth's materials — waits upon my steps.
Pitches her tents before me as I move,

An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves
Elysian, Fortunate Fields, like those of old
Sought in the Atlantic Main, why should they be
A history only of departed things,

Or a mere fiction of what never was?
For the discerning intellect of Man,
When wedded to this goodly universe
In love and holy passion, shall find these
A simple produce of the common day.

Wordsworth.

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

TRONG climber of the mountain's side,

STR

Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide

The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is roll'd;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;

And here the sun-flower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.

To mountain winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun Its beauteous nest to make.

Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane!

For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure,
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature!

A world not scorn'd by Him who made
Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.

Light! not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,
Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land
A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand!

And here, O light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,
Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide -
And that, Niagara's flood.

What tidings from the Andes brings
Yon line of liquid light,

That down from heaven in madness flings
The blind foam of its might?

Do I not hear his thunder roll
The roar that ne'er is still?

'Tis mute as death! — but in my soul It roars, and ever will.

What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone!

What pygmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pygmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky,

Thy feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.

O God of marvels! who can tell
What myriad living things

On these gray stones unseen may dwell;
What nations, with their kings!

I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone
A hundred ruin'd realms!

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impell'd by woe or whim,

May crawl some atom cliffs to see
A tiny world to him!