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Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

WORDSWORTH.

DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils ;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky-way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay,

În such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

WORDSWORTH.

VIOLET.

VIOLET! Sweet violet !

Thine eyes are full of tears;
Are they wet
Even yet

With the thought of other years?
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night so beautiful,

And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved one of my youth thou wast,
Of my merry youth,
And I see
Tearfully,

All the fair and sunny past,
All its openness and truth,
Ever fresh and green in thee
As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love
Grown coloured like the sky above,
On which thou lookest ever,—
Can it know

All the woe

Of hope for what returneth never,
All the sorrow and the longing
To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it! no foolish pining
For the sky

Dims thine eye,

Or for the stars so calmly shining;
Like thee let this soul of mine

Take hue from that wherefor I long,
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,
Not satisfied with hoping--but divine.
Violet! dear violet !

Thy blue eyes are only wet

With joy and love of Him who sent thee,

And for the fulfilling sense

Of that glad obedience

Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

LOWELL.

THE PRIMROSE.

THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,

Moved by the wind that breathes along
So sweetly and so cool.
The hawthorn clusters bloom above,
The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer-by

A modest glance doth throw!

The humble primrose' bonnie face
I meet it everywhere;

Where other flowers disdain to bloom,
It comes and nestles there.

Like God's own light, on every place
In glory it doth fall :

And where its dwelling-place is made,
It straightway hallows all !

Where'er the green-winged linnet sings,
The primrose bloometh lone;
And love it wins-deep love-from all
Who gaze its sweetness on.

On field-paths narrow, and in woods,
We meet thee near and far,

Till thou becomest prized and loved,
As things familiar are!

The stars are sweet at eventide,

But cold, and far away ;

The clouds are soft in summer time,
But all unstable they;

The rose is rich-but pride of place
Is far too high for me-

God's simple common things I love—
My primrose, such as thee!

I love the fireside of my home,
Because all sympathies,

The feelings fond of every day,
Around its circle rise.

And while admiring all the flowers
That summer suns can give,

Within my heart the primrose sweet,
In lowly love doth live!

NICOLL.

THE WALL-FLOWER.

WHY loves my flower, so high reclined
Upon these walls of barren gloom,
To waste her sweetness on the wind,
And far from every eye to bloom?
Why joy to twine with golden braid
This ruined rampart's aged head,
Proud to expose her gentle form,

And swing her bright locks in the storm?

That lonely spot is bleak and hoar,

Where prints my flower her fragrant kiss Yet sorrow hangs not fonder o'er

The ruins of her faded bliss.

And wherefore will she thus inweave

The owl's lone couch, and feel at eve
The wild bat o'er her blossoms fling,

And strike them down with heedless wing?

Thus, gazing on the loftiest tower

Of ruined Fore at eventide,

The Muse addressed a lonely flower
That bloomed above in summer pride.
The Muse's eye, the Muse's ear,
Can more than others see and hear:
The breeze of evening murmured by,
And gave, she deemed, this faint reply :

'On this lone tower, so wild and drear,
'Mid storms and clouds I love to lie,
Because I find a freedom here

Which prouder haunts could ne'er supply. Safe on these walls I sit, and stem

The elements that conquered them;
And high o'er reach of plundering foe

Smile on an anxious world below.

Though envied place I may not claim
On warrior's crest, or lady's hair;
Though tongue may never speak my name,
Nor eye behold and own me fair;
To Him, who tends me from the sky,
I spread my beauties here on high,
And bid the winds to waft above
My incense to His throne of love.
And though in hermit solitude,

Aloft and wild, my home I choose,
On the rock's bosom pillowed rude,
And nurtured by the falling dews,
Yet duly with the opening year
I hang my golden mantle here.
A child of God's I am, and He
Sustains, and clothes, and shelters me.
Nor deem my state without its bliss:
Mine is the first young smile of day;
Mine the light zephyr's earliest kiss;
And mine the skylark's matin lay.
These are my joys with these on high
In peace I hope to live and die,

And drink the dew, and scent the breeze,
As blithe a flower as Flora sees.'

Bloom on, sweet moralist! Be thine

The softest shower, the brightest sun! Long o'er a world of error shine,

And teach them what to seek and shun! Bloom on, and show the simple glee That dwells with those who dwell like thee From noise, and glare, and folly driven, To thought, retirement, peace, and heaven. Show them, in thine, the Christian's lot, So dark and drear in worldly eyes; And yet he would exchange it not

For all they most pursue and prize. From meaner cares and trammels free, He soars above the world, like thee; And fed and nurtured from above, Returns the debt in grateful love.

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