THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

One morning (raw it was and wet
A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead:

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair;

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate : I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard "A simple burden, Sir, a little singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;
In Denmark he was cast away ;

And I have travelled many miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his ;
'Twas my son's bird: and neat and trim
He kept it; many voyages

This singing-bird had gone with him :

When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind: From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;-there
I found it when my son was dead :
And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir :-he took so much delight

in it."

Wordsworth.

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways. 215

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love :

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be:

But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me!

Wordsworth.

I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine, too, is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

Wordsworth.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I've watched you now a short half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless !-not frozen seas
More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours:
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary:
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;

And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

Wordsworth.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS

We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey;

As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills,

We travelled merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.