A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

l'OB.MS 0., CILULI.Ul'KR, AND HI&CErt·UllrotrB. 3!)9

That bower and its music, I never forget,

But o~ wheu alone in the bloom of the year,

I think- is the oi~htin~ale aingiug there yet t

Are tho roeea still bnght by the calmBeodemeer.

No the roeea aoon wither'd that hung o'er tbe wavE',

But some blouowa were g&tber'd, while freshly they

ehone,

And a dew W&.R diatitl'd from their ftowers, tbat gave

All the fragrance of summer, when aummer waa gone.

Thus Memory drawa from itelight, ere it diea,

An eaeeuce that breathes of it many a yelll";

Thus bright to my soul as 'twaa then to m)' eyes,

Is that bower on the banka of the calm &udenleer I

.M.oo&K.

l:gc (Dtfagc.-~n ~ntDniiiDn.
Y 18, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely cot.tage in the r.ardian noult
Hath atir r'd thee deeply; w1th it. own dea.r brook.
Ita own small paature, almoat itA 09Fll aky I
But covet not the abotl&-0 do not eigh
As many do repining while they loolt ;
Intruder& who would tear from Nature'• Lr-ok
This precious leaf with harsh impiety:
-Thmk what the home would be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, wiudow, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all that now enchant. thel', from the dny
On which it should be touch'd would melt away I
WORDSWOBTB.

~ri.tl'• ~ong.-~ ~tll ~lfDc.

FULL fat~om five thy father liea;

Of his bones are corn! made;

Those pearl a that were hie eyea:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

lrlto something rich aud strange.

Sea- nympha hourly ring his kiteU:

Hark I now I hear them--ding-dong bell.

BlU1Ul>ull1t.