Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in; May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his din : Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. By a female friend of Wordsworth. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a Phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene Wordsworth. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud-it has sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! ALICE FELL. Wordsworth. The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned: When suddenly I seemed to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; At length I to the boy called out; Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade him halt again. Said I, alighting on the ground, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak!" no other word she spoke, "What ails you, child?"-she sobbed, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled. 'Twas twisted between nave and spoke : "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild— "Then come with me into the chaise." |