YOUTH AND AGE.

When I was young!

When I was young ?—Ah, woful when!
Ah! for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along;
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

Oh, the joys that came down shower-like
Of friendship, love, and liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old?—Ah, woful ere!
Which tells me, youth's no longer here!
O youth! for years so many and sweet
"Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold.
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size:

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But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will,
That youth and I are housemates still.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon

rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;

Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

THE POET'S PRAYER.

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Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour.

BEATTIE.

THE POET'S PRAYER.

HAIL to the crown by freedom shap'd, to gird
An English sovereign's brow! and to the throne
Whereon he sits! whose deep foundations lie
In veneration and the people's love;

Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.

Hail to the state of England! And conjoin
With this a salutation as devout

Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church;
Founded in truth, by blood of martyrdom
Cemented, by the hands of wisdom rear'd
In beauty of holiness, with order'd pomp,
Decent and unreprov'd. The voice that greets
The majesty of both shall pray for both,
That, mutually protected and sustain'd,
They may endure long as the sea surrounds
This favour'd land, or sunshine warms her soil.
And oh, ye swelling hills and spacious plains,
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers,
And spires whose "silent finger points to heaven;"
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk
Of ancient minster, lifted above the cloud
Of the dense air which town or city breeds,
To intercept the sun's glad beams! may ne'er
That true succession fail of English hearts,

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THE POET'S PRAYER.

Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive
What in those structures ye possess
Of ornamental interest, and the charm
Of pious sentiment diffus'd afar,
And human charity, and social love.

Thus never shall the indignities of time
Approach their reverend graces unoppos'd;
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt
Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn.

And if the devastating hand of war
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow
Upon the throng'd abodes of busy men
(Deprav'd, and ever prone to fill their minds
Exclusively with transitory things)
An air and mien of dignified pursuit ;
Of sweet civility on rustic wilds.

The poet, fostering for his native land
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound
Of those pure altars worthy; ministers
Detach'd from pleasure; to the love of gain
Superior; unsusceptible of pride,
And by ambitious longings undisturb❜d:
Men whose delight is where their duty leads
Or fixes them; whose least distinguish'd day
Shines with some portion of that heav'nly lustre
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares.

WORDSWORTH.

ELEGY.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease,
In still small accents whisp'ring from the ground
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.