nets, Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, Yarrow Revisited, and The Prelude.

In 1813 Wordsworth removed his family to Rydal Mount, in the beloved Grasmere vale. Here in sight of those beautiful lakes and under the shadow of those old hills which have become inseparably associated with his name the poet spent the greater part of his long life. To this house, embowered with a profusion of ivy and roses and overlooking the silver-gleaming Windermere, came such famous visitors as Dr. Channing, Fields, Emerson and many other noted Americans, besides his neighbors, Coleridge, Southey, Charles Lamb and the famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby. In Fields' Yesterdays With Authors may be found a delightful picture of Wordsworth in his home. Shortly after coming to Rydal Mount his friend, Lord Lonsdale, secured for him the office of stamp distributor for the County of Westmoreland, which, while not requiring heavy duties, brought him the welcome salary of £500 annually. He held the office until well up in the seventies and then resigned in favor of his son, receiving a pension of £300 a year. After the death of his friend Southey, in 1843, he succeeded to the laureateship. He died seven years later, April 23, a few days after completing his eightieth year. His body was laid to rest in the little churchyard of Grasmere beside his dearly loved daughter, who had preceded him to the beauteous shore three years before.

MEMORY SELECTIONS.

"Why should we crave a hallow'd spot?
An altar is in each man's cot,

A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads."

"From the body of one guilty deed

A thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed."

"Honor is the finest sense of justice which the human mind can frame."

"We sail the sea of life; a calm one finds,
And one a tempest; and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all."

"Small service is true service while it lasts;
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

Protects the ling'ring dewdrop from the sun."
"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
"O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in everything."

Familiar lines from Wordsworth:
I. The child is father of the man.

2. What are fears but voices airy?

3. Soft is the music that would charm forever. 4. The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 5. Hope rules a land forever green.

6. Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

7. The stars are mansions built by nature's hand.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF

EARLY CHILDHOOD.

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Appareled in celestial light

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore:

Turn whereso'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief;
A timely utterance gave thought relief,

And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep-
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong.
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng;
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

shepherd boy!

Ye blessed creatures! I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fullness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all.

O evil day! if I were sullen

While earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May morning,

And the children are culling,

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,-
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm,—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !----

But there's a tree, of many one,

A single field which I have looked upon.-
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar.

Not in entire forgetfulnes,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy;

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,—
He sees it in his joy.

The youth who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended:

At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction; not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest,

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

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