Like a high-born maiden With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers Joyous and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass : Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain ? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem K Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, The world should listen then as I am listening now. 4.-THE CATARACT OF LODORE. [See page 110.] How does the water come down at Lodore? So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store. And 'twas in my vocation that thus I should sing, Because I was laureate to them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell, From its fountain in the mountain, Through moss and through brake, And through the wood shelter, How does the water come down at Lodore ? It hastens along, conflicting, and strong, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among. Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, With endless rebound; Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound. Reeding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And falling and crawling and sprawling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, 5. THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. [Mary Botham was born at Uttoxeter, in the County of Stafford, and married William Howitt, the popular author and editor, in 1823. Both were originally members of the Society of Friends. Besides the works published in conjunction with her husband, Mrs. Howitt is the authoress of "The Seven Temptations," a dramatic poem; "Wood Leighton," a novel; "The Heir of West Wayland;" and several volumes in prose and verse for children. She is also favourably known as the translator of the tales of Frederika Bremer and Hans Christian Andersen. Still living.] OH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; The children of the poor man, though they be young each one, And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done. Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, The sunshine, and the summer flowers upon the highway side, Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, they were the rich man's store: There was the while one little lamb, beside a cottage-door; A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee : That had a place within their hearts, one of the family. But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed, That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. "What is the creature's life to us ?" said he; "'twill buy us food. 66 Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; |