55.-ELLEN'S SONG-THE LADY OF THE LAKE.-Sir W. Scott.

1 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; dream of battle-fields no more, days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, hands unseen thy couch are strewing; fairy strains of music fall, every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; dream of battlefields no more, morn of toil, nor night of waking. 2 No rude sound shall reach thine ear, armour's clang, or war-steed champing; trump nor pibroch summon here mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come at the daybreak from the fallow, and the bittern sound his drum, booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, guards nor warders challenge here; here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 3 Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; while our slumb'rous spells assail ye, dream not with the rising sun bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den; sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, how thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; think not of the rising sun, for at dawning to assail ye, here no bugle sounds reveillé.

56. THE FAIRY BOY.-Samuel Lover.

' A mother came when stars were paling, wailing round a lonely spring; thus she cried, while tears were falling, calling on the Fairy King: "Why with spells, my child caressing, courting him with fairy joy,-why destroy a mother's blessing? wherefore steal my baby boy? 2 O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, where his childhood loved to play; where the flowers are freshly springing, there I wander day by day. There I wander, growing fonder of the child that made my joy; on the echoes wildly calling to restore my fairy boy. 3 But in vain my plaintive calling, tears are falling all in vain; he now sports with fairy pleasure, he's the treasure of their train. Fare thee well, my child, for ever, in this world I've lost my joy; but in the next we ne'er shall sever-there I'll find my angel boy!"

57.--SOLILOQUY OF A WATER-WAGTAIL.-Montgomery.

"Hear your sovereign's proclamation, all good subjects, young and old! I'm the Lord of the Creation,-I, a Water-wagtail bold; all around, and all you see,--all the world, was made for ME! 2 Yonder sun, so proudly shining, rises when I leave my nest; and, behind the hills declining, sets when I retire to rest; morn and evening thus you see,-day and night, were made for ME! 3 Vernal gales to love invite me; Summer sheds for me her beams; Autumn's genial scenes delight me; Winter

6

paves with ice my streams; all the year is mine, you see,-seasons change like moons for ME! On the heads of giant mountains, or beneath the shady trees; by the banks of warbling fountains, I enjoy myself at ease: hills and valleys, thus you see, groves and rivers, made for ME! 5 Boundless are my vast dominions,-I can hop, or swim, or fly; when I please, my towering pinions trace my empire through the sky: air and elements, you see,-heaven and earth,—were made for ME! Birds and insects, beasts and fishes, all their humble distance keep; man, subservient to my wishes, sows the harvest which I reap: mighty man himself, you see,--all that breathe, were made for ME! 7'Twas for my accommodation Nature rose when I was born; should I die, the whole creation back to nothing would return! sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, sprung-exist-will fall with ME !"- 8 Here the pretty prattler, ending, spread his wings to soar away; but a cruel hawk, descending, pounced him up-a helpless prey. Could'st thou not, poor Wagtail, see that the hawk was made for THEE?

58.-THE DEAD DOVE.-Keats.

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die—
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest tree;

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft and gave you

white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

59.-MAY-DAY CAROL.-Heber.

2

1 Queen of fresh flowers, whom vernal stars obey, bring the warm showers, bring thy genial ray. In Nature's greenest livery drest, descend on Earth's expectant breast, to Earth and Heaven a welcome guest, thou merry month of May! Mark, how we meet thee at dawn of dewy day! Hark! how we greet thee with our roundelay! While all the goodly things that be, in earth, and air, and ample sea, are waking up to welcome thee, thou merry month of May! 3 Flocks on the mountains, and birds upon their spray, tree, turf, and fountains, all hold holiday. And Love, the life of living things, Love waves his torch, Love claps his wings, and loud and wide thy praises sings, thou merry month of May !

60. THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.-Bernard Barton.

Though lofty Scotia's mountains, where savage grandeur reigns;
Though bright be England's fountains, and fertile be her plains;
When 'mid their charms I wander, of thee I think the while,
And seem of thee the fonder, my own Green Isle !

While many who have left thee, seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me of its endearing claim:
Afar from thee sojourning, whether I sigh or smile,
I call thee still," Mavourneen," my own Green Isle!

Fair as the glittering waters thy emerald banks that lave,
To me thy graceful daughters-thy generous sons as brave.
Oh! there are hearts within thee which know not shame or guile,
And such proud homage win thee, my own Green Isle !

For their dear sakes I love thee, Mavourneen, though unseen;
Bright be the sky above thee, thy shamrock ever green;
May evil ne'er distress thee, nor darken, nor defile;
But heaven for ever bless thee, my own Green Isle!

61.-TO THE LINNET.-Robert Nicoll.

Some humble heart is sore and sick with grief,
And straight thou comest with thy gentle song
To wile the sufferer from his hate or wrong,
By bringing Nature's love to his relief.

Thou churmest by the sick child's window long,
Till racking Pain itself be wooed to sleep;
And when away have vanished flower and leaf,
Thy lonely, wailing voice for them doth weep-
Linnet! wild linnet!

God saw how much of woe, and grief, and care,
Man's faults and follies on the earth would make;
And thee, sweet singer, for his creatures' sake,

He sent to warble wildly everywhere,

And in our souls new love to wake.

Oh! blessed wandering spirit! unto thee

Pure hearts are knit, as unto things too fair,
And good, and beautiful. of earth to be—
Linnet! wild linnet!

62.-HOW KING COPHETUA LOVED THE BEGGAR MAID.-Tennyson.

Her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say ; Barefooted came the Beggar Maid before the King Cophetua.

In robe and crown the King stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "she is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen:
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been:
Cophetua swore a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen.”

63.-AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.-Rogers.

Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where Robin's tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves-
Gone to the world where birds are blest!

Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

64. THE SUNSHINE.-Mary Howitt.

I love the sunshine everywhere-in wood, and field, and glen;
I love it in the busy haunts of town-imprisoned men.

I love it, when it streameth in the humble cottage door,

And casts the chequered casement-shade upon the red-brick floor.

I love it on the breezy sea, to glance on sail and oar;

While the great waves, like molten glass, come leaping to the shore.
I love it on the mountain-tops, where lies the thawless snow;
And half a kingdom, bathed in light, lies stretching out below.

Oh, yes! I love the sunshine:-like kindness, or like mirth
Upon a human countenance, is sunshine on the earth.
Upon the earth-upon the sea-and through the crystal air
Or piled-up clouds,-the gracious sun is glorious everywhere!

65.-THE DAFFODILS.-Wordsworth.

3

1 I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils; beside a lake beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 2 Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way, they stretched in neverending line along the margin of a bay; ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee: a poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company. I gazed, and gazed, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. 4 For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.

66. A SUMMER EVENING.-Watts.

How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course that he run;
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain.
But now the fair traveller's come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretels a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian: his course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, while he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way:

But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,
Of rising in brighter array.

67.-THE MERRY HEART.-Charles Lamb.

1 I would not from the wise require the number of their learned lore ; nor would I from the rich desire a single counter of their store. For I have ease, and I have health, and I have spirits, light as air; and more than wisdom, more than wealth, a merry heart that laughs at care. Like other mortals of my kind, I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour, and sometimes have been half inclined to rate her for her ill-behaviour. But life was short-I thought it folly to lose its moments in despair; so