Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

YEW-TREES.

THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single in

the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of

vore:

Not loath to furnish weapons for the

bands

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea,

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour;

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnifi

cent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are throse fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with fantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane; a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of redbrown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially; beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear, and
trembling Hope,
Silence, and Foresight; Death the
Skeleton,

And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute re

pose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

WORDSWORTH.

THE BARBERRY-BUSH.

THE bush that has most briers and bitter fruit:

Wait till the frost has turned its green leaves red,

Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,

And thou mayst find e'en there a homely bread.

Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide,

Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in spring; And, straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side,

Their ripened branches to your hand they bring.

I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,

That then I gave such name, and thought it true;

But now I know that other fruit as

Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien

corn;

The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

KEATS.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did
spring,

Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in
vain,

None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear
thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer
thee;

King Pandiva, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing;
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

R. BARNEField,

They are gone, they are gone; but I go not with them,

I linger to weep o'er its desolate

stem.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG.

ROUND my own pretty rose I have hovered all day,

I have seen its sweet leaves one by one fall away: