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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 Engiish 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.

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