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I'll read Thy anger in the rack

That clouds a while the day-beam's track-
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of thy Deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,

20

25

But in its gloom I trace Thy love,

And meekly wait that moment when

Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

ANALYSIS.-17. rack. What is the meaning?
18. Give the grammatical construction of a while.
19. What is the syntax of mercy?

20. Parse breaking and through.

21. Dispose of There's, bright, above, and below.

27. Grammatical construction of wait and moment! 25. Give construction of shall turn, all, and bright.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells

Of love and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THE GLORY OF GOD IN CREATION.

I.

THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

II.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through opening vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are Thine.

III.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine.

IV.

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When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flower that Summer wreathes
Is born beneath Thy kindling eye:
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

18. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

1770-1850.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, known as the chief of the Lake School of poets, of which Coleridge and Southey also were prominent members, was the son of an attorney. He was born on the 7th of April, 1770, in Cumberland. He and his associates, who were noted for the simplicity not only of their themes, but also of their manner of expression, were known as the Lake School from their residing among the lakes of North-western England.

Having lost both father and mother at a very early age, Wordsworth's education was cared for by an uncle, who sent him to St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1787. Here, it is said, he read a great deal, studied Italian, wrote poetry, and pursued his work in what he considered a narrow course of study. His vacations were spent mostly in making tours of Switzerland and France.

His friends were desirous that he should become a clergyman, but Wordsworth's great passion was for poetry. His first venture was the publication of two short poems entitled An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches. The clearest minds at once recognized his genius Coleridge, who afterward became his lasting friend was particularly impressed with the merit of these poems. But poetry did not promise Wordsworth å living, and he began to think of making either law or journalism his profession, when, fortunately for him and the literature of the language, a dying friend, Calvert,

bequeathed him nine hundred pounds, with the pressing request that he would devote himself to poetry.

Soon thereafter Wordsworth settled down in Somersetshire with his sister, where he wrote Salisbury Plain and a tragedy. Here also he made the acquaintance of Coleridge, and in 1798 they published a volume together called Lyrical Ballads, the first part of which was Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and the remaining poems those written by Wordsworth. But the book met with little

success.

Wordsworth now made a tour of Germany, and on his return he and his sister removed to a cottage at Grasmere, where he married. A debt of eight thousand five hundred pounds which had been due to his father was paid about this time, and the poet was now enabled to devote himself entirely to his chosen task. Having removed from Grasmere to Rydal Mount, he was appointed, about the year 1815, to the office of distributor of stamps, with a salary of five hundred pounds a year, and but little work. In the following year he published his greatest poem, The Excursion, which met at first with much criticism, but which has proved to be one of the classics of the language.

From his being the poet of Nature, Wordsworth has often been called "the English Bryant," as Bryant has frequently been styled "the American Wordsworth." On the death of Southey, in 1843, Wordsworth was made poet-laureate. His chief poem, as has been said, is The Excursion. Among the most popular of his shorter poems are The White Doe of Rylstone, Ruth, We are Seven, Lines on Revisiting the Wye, Laodamia, and Ode on Immortality.

In 1842, Wordsworth, then seventy-two years of age resigned his public office to his son, and in 1850, on the 23d of April, he died at Rydal Mount, and was buried

at Grasmere by the side of a much-loved daughter, whose death occurred three years before.

CRITICISM BY R. H. DANA.

MR. WORDSWORTH appeared in good time, with a marked, original mind, an imagination filled with forms of beauty and grandeur, and with a profound spiritual philosophy, so universally pervasive, so predominant, and partaking so much of system and form, that he may be said to have presented poetry under a new phasis.

Yet he has such an air of thoughtful truth in his stories and characters, and the sentiments put into the mouths of his people, though so elevated, have such a simplicity of expression, and so distinct are his descriptions and so like to what we see around us, that we do not stop to consider we are taken out of the world and daily reality into the regions of imagination and poetry. It may at first seem strange that the poetical interest should be so deep where there is so slight a departure from plain experience in the circumstances. But it is the silent change wrought in ourselves, through the great depth of the sentiment and the utter and beautiful simplicity of the language, that awakens it

in us.

Mr. Wordsworth stirs up right thoughts and pure wishes within our minds and hearts, clears our dim imaginations, and the poetry of our being becomes its truth. In a certain sense he may be said to have given birth to another creation. The mountains and valleys, the rivers and plains, it is true, are the same, and so are the trees and smaller plants, and the bright passing clouds: to our mere eye they are the same as seen yesterday. But a new sense is opened in our hearts, and from out this new and delightful reflections are

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