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LINES WRITTEN IN MARCH.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun :

The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising-
There are forty feeding like one !

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill,

On the top of the bare hill.
The plough-boy is whooping—anon—anon :

There's joy in the mountains ;
There's life in the fountains ;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;
The rain is over and gone !

Wordsworth.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

“ Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”

Exclaimed an angry voice,
“ Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

Between me and my choice !”
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,

In an unhappy home.

“ Dost thou presume my course to block ?

Off, off! or, puny Thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock

To which thy fibres cling."
The Flood was tyrannous and strong,
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past ;
But, seeing no relief, at last,

He ventured to reply.

The Waterfall and the Eglantine. 225 “Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not :

Why should we dwell in strife ? We who in this sequestered spot

Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bedWhat pleasure through my veins you spread! The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed : Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.

" When spring came on with bud and bell,

Among the rocks did I,
Before you hang my wreaths to tell

That gentle days were nigh !
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves—now shed and gone-
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you

Had little voice or none.

“But now proud thoughts are in your breast,

What grief is mine you see, Ah! would you think, even yet how blest

Together we might be !

“Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left-
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter day ;

A happy Eglantine !"

What more he said I cannot tell,
The stream came thundering down the dell,

With aggravated haste :
I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The Briar quaked—and much I fear
Those accents were his last.

Wordsworth.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

“ O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee !"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o’er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;
The blinding mist came down and hid the land,

And never home came she.

Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair ?

A tress of golden hair,
Of drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea :
Was never salmon got that shone so fair

Among the stakes at Dee !

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea :
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle

home
Across the sands o' Dee.

Kingsley..

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