Adam adjudged it the name of Hesperus, star of the evening.

Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star of evening above them, Come in their lonelier walk the pupils twain and Tutor;

Turned from the track of the carts, and passing the stone and shingle,

Piercing the wood, and skirting the stream by the natural causeway, Rounded the craggy point, and now at their ease looked up; and Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, the Glory of headers,

Lo, on the beach, expecting the plunge, not cigarless, the Piper.

And they looked, and wondered, incredulous, looking yet once

Eying one moment the beauty, the life, ere he flung himself in it, Eying through eddying green waters the green tinting floor underneath them,

Eying the bead on the surface, the bead, like a cloud, rising to it, Drinking in, deep in his soul, the beautiful hue and the clearness,

Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboasting, the glory of

headers;

}

Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knapsack, spectator and critic, Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, the Cloud-compeller.

more.

Yes, it was he, on the ledge, barelimbed, an Apollo, down-gazing,

CLOUGH.

SWIMMING.

How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring,

The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's stroke

Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair,

And laughing from my lip the audacious brine,

Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er

The waves as they arose, and prouder still The loftier they uplifted me; and oft,

And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,

And bade the snow their ample backs bestride,

And to the battle ride: No pitying voice commands a halt, No courage can repel the dire assault: Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind,

Whole legions sink, and, in an instant, find

Burial and death: look for them, and descry, When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky,

A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!

WORDSWORTH.

LOST IN THE SNOW.

THE snows arise; and, foul and fierce,

All winter drives along the darkened air:

In his own loose-revolving fields the swain

Disastered stands; sees other hills

ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other

scenes,

Far from the track, and bless'd abode of man;

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:

Nor finds the river, nor the forest, --hid Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray: Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,

Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! What black despair, what horror, fills hi heart! When, for the dusky spot which fancy feigned His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste,