No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
The dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that crossed our view
With joyful shout was greeted, as it flew ;
And moth and lady-bird, and beetle bright,
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.
Then, as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted parr, with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long prospective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years;
And yet, through every stage I still can trace
Thy visioned form, from childhood's morning grace
To woman's early bloom - changing, how soon,
To the expressive glow of woman's noon!
And now to what thou art, in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment—whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plot thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,
Or on the parlor hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way,
To gain, with hasty steps, some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighboring poor-
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye

Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief, and temper keen,
Well may it please me, in life's latter scene,
To think what now thou art, and long to me hast been.

'T was thou who woo'dst me first to look

Upon the page of printed book

That thing by me abhorred and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,

When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I
Lurking approval on thy face to spy;

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
"What! is this story all thine own invention ?"

By daily use and circumstance endeared,
Things are of value now that once appeared
Of no account, and without notice passed,
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast;
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;
After each stated nightly absence, met,

To see thee by the morning table set,

Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream
Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam;
To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand,
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand,
For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom,
From thy cold noon-day walk to see thee come,
In furry garment lapt, with spattered feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;

Ay, even o'er things like these, soothed age has thrown
A sober charm they did not always own
As winter hoar-frost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedgewood sparkle to the day,
In magnitude and beauty, which, bereaved
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived.

The change of good and evil to abide,
As partners linked, long have we, side by side,
Our earthly journey held; and who can say
How near the end of our united way?

By nature's course, not distant; sad and reft
Will she remain — the lonely pilgrim left.
If thou art taken first, who can to me
Like sister, friend and home-companion be?
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,
Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn?

And if I should be fated first to leave

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,—
And he, above them all, so truly proved

A friend and brother, long and justly loved, —
There is no living wight, of woman born,
Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, forever sharing
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,

An unadorned, but not a careless lay;

Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long delayed.
Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed,
The latest spoken still are deemed the best.
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write ;
These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite.

REV. JOHN FOSTER. 1770-1843.

Mr. Foster was a Baptist clergyman, and for a time was settled near Robert Hall, for whose talents he had the highest admiration. Foster's Essays, in a Series of Letters, published in 1805, were ranked among the most valuable productions of the day, and are regarded

as

"models

of vigorous thought and expression, uniting metaphysical nicety and

acuteness with practical sagacity and common sense.

His life and

correspondence, recently published, let us into the arcana of his char

acter, and afford a high intellectual and moral treat.

FROM THE ESSAY ON A MAN'S WRITING MEMOIRS

OF HIMSELF.

If a reflective aged man were to find, at the bottom of an old chest, where it had lain forgotten fifty years, a record which

he had written of himself when he was young, simply and vividly describing his whole heart and pursuits, and reciting verbatim many passages of the language which he sincerely uttered, would he not read it with more wonder than almost every other writing could at his age inspire? He would half lose the assurance of his identity, under the impression of this immense dissimilarity. It would seem as if it must be the tale of the juvenile days of some ancestor, with whom he had no connection but that of name. He would feel the young man thus introduced to him separated by so wide a distance of character as to render all congenial sociality impossible. At every sentence, he would be tempted to repeat, Foolish youth, I have no sympathy with your feelings; I can hold no converse with your understanding. Thus you see that in the course of a long life a man may be several moral persons, so various from one another, that if you could find a real individual that should nearly exemplify the character in one of these stages, and another that should exemplify it in the next, and so on to the last, and then bring these several persons together into one society, which would thus be a representation of the successive states of one man, they would feel themselves a most heterogeneous party, would oppose and probably despise one another, and soon after separate, not caring if they were never to meet again. If the dissimilarity in mind were as great as in person, there would, in both respects, be a most striking contrast between the extremes, at least-between the youth of seventeen and the sage of seventy. The one of these contrasts an old man might contemplate, if he had a true portrait for which he sat in the bloom of his life, and should hold it beside a mirror, in which he looks at his present countenance; and the other would be more powerfully felt, if he had such a genuine and detailed memoir as I have supposed. Might it not be worth while for a self-observant person, in early life, to preserve, for the inspection of the old man, if he should live so long, such a mental likeness of the young one? If it be not drawn near the time, it can never be drawn with sufficient

accuracy.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

After completing his studies at the University of Cambridge, Words worth made a pedestrian tour through France, Switzerland and Italy. He spent some time in Paris, then returned to England, and made a journey on foot through the most picturesque regions of his own country. He selected a residence in Somersetshire, where he became intimately acquainted with Coleridge, with whom he made a visit to Germany, which was repeated by the two after an interval of thirty years. But his permanent residence-that from which he has so lately passed away. was fixed at Rydal, under the shadow of the mountain of the same name, and by the side of one of the beautiful lakes of Westmoreland.

At the age of thirteen, he made his first attempt at poetry, which has been almost the sole business of his life. "Wordsworth was eminently the poet of the moral nature. To him, the most beautiful object in the world was a beautiful human soul. His favorite belief was the Divine adaptation of the universe to the growth and development of humanity. Hence, he watched the changing phases of nature, not only with the passion of a lover, but with the enthusiasm of a devotee. Everything to him was instinct with a spiritual life. Nature was glorified by its connection with Man; and Man was brought into a sublime ideal sphere by his relations with Nature."

Happy in his domestic connections, affluent in his circumstances, residing amidst some of the most beautiful scenery of England, numbering among his friends many of the most eminent men of his times, and honored, at length, with the distinction of poet laureate, this poet of nature and humanity passed a long life of dignified tranquillity, in enjoyments most worthy of a rational soul.

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN AB BEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

FIVE years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters; and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain springs,
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

Which on a wild, secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

*

*

*

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me
As is à landscape to a blind man's eye;
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,