SARA COLERIDGE

I was a Brook

I

WAS a brook in straitest channel pent,

Forcing 'mid rocks and stones my toilsome

way,

A scanty brook in wandering well-nigh spent ;
But now with thee, rich stream, conjoin'd I stray,
Through golden meads the river sweeps along,
Murmuring its deep full joy in gentlest undersong.

I crept through desert moor and gloomy glade,
My waters ever vex'd, yet sad and slow,

My waters ever steep'd in baleful shade :

But, whilst with thee, rich stream, conjoined I flow, E'en in swift course the river seems to rest,

Blue sky, bright bloom and verdure imag'd on its breast.

And, whilst with thee I roam through regions bright,

Beneath kind love's serene and gladsome sky
A thousand happy things that seek the light,
Till now in darkest shadow forc'd to lie,

Up through the illumin'd waters nimbly run,
To show their forms and hues in the all revealing

sun.

How High yon Lark

HOW high yon lark is heavenward borne !
Yet, ere again she hails the morn,

Beyond where birds can wing their way
Our souls may soar to endless day,
May hear the heavenly choirs rejoice,
While earth still echoes to her voice.

A waveless flood, supremely bright,
Has drown'd the myriad isles of light;
But ere that ocean ebb'd away,
The shadowy gulf their forms betray,
Above the stars our course may run,
'Mid beams unborrow'd from the sun.

In this bright light what flowers will bloom,
What insects quit the self-made womb!
But ere the bud its leaves unfold,
The gorgeous fly his plumes of gold,
On fairer wings we too may glide,
Where youth and joy no ills betide.

Then, come, while yet we linger here,
Fit thoughts for that celestial sphere,
A heart which under keenest light,
May bear the gaze of spirits bright,
Who all things know, and nought endure
That is not holy, just and pure.

BERNARD BARTON

To a Grandmother

('Old age is dark and unlovely.'-OSSIAN.)

SAY not so! A bright old age is thine;
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine
At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all he sends with gratitude receives ;-
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!

And hence thy fireside chair appears to me
A peaceful throne—which thou wert form'd to fill;
Thy children, ministers to do thy will;

And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee,

Thy little subjects, looking up to thee,

As one who claims their fond allegiance still.