Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,

Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,

And all these merry days mak'st merry men

Thyself and melancholy streams.

But ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropt;

Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night; Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt,

And what scythes spared winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now green ice, thy joys

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise

Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends, we will create

A genuine summer in each other's breast;

And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,

Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally

As vestal flames; the North-wind,

he

Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly

This Etna in epitome. Dropping December shall come weeping in,

Bewail th' usurping of his reign; But when in showers of old Greek* we begin,

Shall cry, he hath his crown again!

Night as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip

From the light casements where we play,

And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,

And stick there everlasting day.

Greek wine.

And when we came in front of that tall rock

That eastward looks, I there stopped short, and stood

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues, In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.

When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.

The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

Was ready with her cavern; Ham

mar-scar,

And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth

A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,

And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the Lady's voice, -old Skid

daw blew

His speaking-trumpet; back out of

the clouds

Of Glaramara southward came the

voice;

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

"Now whether" (said I to our cordial friend,

Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face), "this were in simple truth

A work accomplished by the brotherhood

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched

With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills."

And while we both were listening, to my side

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

To shelter from some object of her fear.

And hence long afterwards, when eighteen moons

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

And silent morning, I sat down, and there,

In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude charac

ters

Joanna's name deep in the living stone;

And I and all who dwell by my fireside

Have called the lovely rock, "Joanna's Rock."

WORDSWORTH.

IL PENSEROSO.

HENCE, vain deluding joys,

The brood of Folly without father bred,

How little you bestead,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!

Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,

Or likest hovering dreams

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy,

Hail divinest Melancholy,

Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's
hue:

Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might be-

seem,

Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that

strove

To set her beauty's praise above The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended:

Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of

yore,

To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cyprus-lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the
skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and
Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleas-

ure;

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,

Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Museus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did
seek.

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambusean bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and
glass,

And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards be-

side,

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the

ear.

Thus Night oft see me in thy pale

career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and froune'd as she was
wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the

eaves.

And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring

To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves

Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow'd

haunt.

There in close covert by some brock,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious

dream

Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine

ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heav'n before mine

eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heav'n doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
MILTON.

FROM THE BOTHIE OF TOBER NA VUOLICH.

THERE is a stream, I name not its

name, lest inquisitive tourist Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide-books, Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of great mountains,

Falling two miles through rowan

and stunted alder, enveloped Then for four more in a forest of pine, where broad and ample Spreads, to convey it, the glen with

heathery slopes on both sides: Broad and fair the stream, with

occasional falls and narrows; But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of the river,

Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite,

Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up and raging onward, Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would step

it, There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge

goes,

Carrying a path to the forest; below, three hundred yards, say Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats of shingle, Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open valley.

But in the interval here the boiling, pent-up water

Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin,

Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror;

Beautiful there for color derived from green rocks under; Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising

Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness. Cliff overcliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch-boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water,

Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing.

Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the fall and clear it; Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded sparklings, Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty ledges. Hither, a month agone, they had and discovered it;

come, hither (Long a design, but long unaccountably left unaccomplished), Leaving the well-known bridge and pathway above to the forest, Turning below from the track of the carts Over stone and shingle,