SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

William Wordsworth.

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A

THE SLANTEN LIGHT 0' FALL.

(DORSET DIALECT.)

H! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,

When you wer' christen'd, small an' light, Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,

A-hangen in your robe o' white.

We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,
When harvest-work wer' all a-done,
An' time brought round October zun,
The slanten light o' Fall.

An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,

An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, An' you wer' nessled warm enough, 'Ithin your smilen mother's earms. The whindlen grass did quiver light, Among the stubble, feaded white, An' if at times the zunlight broke Upon the groun', or on the vo'k,

'T wer' slanten light o' Fall.

An' when we brought ye droo the door
O' Knapton church, a child o' greace,
There cluster'd roun' a'most a score

O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.
An' there we all did veel so proud,
To zee an op❜nen in the cloud,

An' then a stream o' light break droo,

THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL.

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A-sheenen brightly down on you,
The slanten light o' Fall.

But now your time's a-come to stan'
In church a-blushen at my zide,
The while a bridegroom vrom my han'
Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.
Your christen neame we gi'd ye here,
When Fall did cool the weasten year;
An' now, agean, we brought ye droo
The doorway, wi' your surneame new,
In slanten light o' Fall.

An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,
An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,
An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare,
Vor ever, till your journey's end.
An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
But now I soon mus' leave your zide,
Vor
you ha' still life's springtide zun,
But my life, Jeane, is now a-run

To slanten light o' Fall.

William Barnes.

I'

A HEALTH.

FILL this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
"T is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,

So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life's, but hers.

ON A GIRDLE.

I fill this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon,

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

Edward Coate Pinkney.

ON A GIRDLE.

HAT which her slender waist confined

THAT

Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this hath done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there

Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

Edmund Waller.

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