JOHN KEBLE.

1792-1866.

SPRING FLOWERS.

THE loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth,

And they first feel the sun; so violets blue,

So the soft star-like primrose drenched in dew,
The happiest of Spring's happy, fragrant birth.
To gentlest touches sweetest tones reply ;-

Still humbleness with her low-breathed voice

Can steal o'er man's proud heart, and win his choice

From earth to heaven, with mightier witchery

Than eloquence or wisdom e'er could own.

Bloom on then in your shade, contented bloom,

Sweet flowers, nor deem yourselves to all unknown,

Heaven knows you, by whose gales and dews ye thrive,
They know, who one day for their altered doom

Shall thank you, taught by you to abase themselves and

live.

JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.

EARTH AND HEAVEN.

WHEN I behold yon arch magnificent

Spanning the gorgeous West, the autumnal bed
Where the great Sun now hides his weary head,
With here and there a purple isle, that rent
From that huge cloud their solid continent,
Seem floating in a sea of golden light,

A fire is kindled in my musing sprite,
And Fancy whispers :-Such the glories lent
To this our mortal life; most glowing fair,
But built on clouds, and melting while we gaze.
Yet since those shadowy lights sure witness bear
Of One not seen, the undying Sun and Source
Of good and fair, who wisely them surveys

Will use them well to cheer his heavenward course.

JOHN Keble.

1792-1866.

AT HOOKER'S TOMB.

THE grey-eyed Morn was saddened with a shower,

A silent shower, that trickled down so still,

Scarce drooped beneath its weight the tenderest flower,

Scarce could you trace it on the twinkling rill,

Or moss-stone bathed in dew. It was an hour

Most meet for prayer beside thy lowly grave,

Most for thanksgiving meet, that Heaven such power
To thy serene and humble spirit gave.

'Who sow good seed with tears, shall reap in joy.'

So thought I as I watched the gracious rain,

And deemed it like that silent sad employ

Whence sprung thy glory's harvest, to remain
God hath sworn to lift on high

For ever.

Who sinks himself by true humility.

JOHN CLARE.

1793-1864.

CARELESS RAMBLES.

I LOVE to wander at my idle will

In summer's luscious prime about the fields,
To kneel when thirsty at the little rill,

And sip the draught its pebbly bottom yields;
And where the maple bush its fountain shields,
To lie, and rest a sultry hour away,

Cropping the swelling peascod from the land;
Or 'mid the sheltering woodland-walks to stray
Where oaks for aye o'er their old shadows stand,
'Neath whose dark foliage with a welcome hand,
I pluck the luscious strawberry ripe and red
As Beauty's lips ;-and in my fancy's dreams,
As 'mid the velvet moss I musing tread,

Feel Life as lovely as her picture seems.

JOHN CLARE.

1793-1864.

THE THRUSH'S NEST.

WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,

That overhung a molehill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy and oft, an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day;
How true she warped the moss to form her nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:
And there I witnessed in the summer hours
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.