When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

WILLIAM Wordsworth,

CXXXVI.

1770-1850.

HE dwelt among the untrodden ways

SHE

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.

CXXXVII.

TO THE CUCKOO.

BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee, and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,

Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy two-fold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial faery place;

That is fit home for thee!

CXXXVIII.

HE was a phantom of delight

SHE

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament:

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;

Like twilight's too her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

CXXXIX.

A

SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.