As the dew of the morning bestars every blade,
But ere noon is no more on the plain,

Yet abides in the bell of the flower in the shade
Till dew comes at evening again.

So the feelings of youth, the fond faith of the heart,
In manhood dry up like the dew.

Oh! let them survive in the soul's better part,
Till death shall the morning renew.

LINES.

If I were young as I have been,
And you were only gay sixteen,
I would address you as a goddess,
Write loyal cantos to your boddice,
Wish that I were your cap, your shoe,
Or anything that 's near to you.
But I am old, and you, my fair,
Are somewhat older than you were.
A lover's language in your hearing
Would sound like irony and jeering.
Once you were fair to all that see,
Now you are only fair to me.

TO A FRIEND LEAVING GRASMERE.

SWEET Grasmere vale, though I must leave Thy hills and quiet waters,

Nor sing again at fragrant eve

To glad thy winsome daughters,

Yet will I fondly think of thee,

And thy fair maids will think of me,

When I am far away.

I think of thee, but 'tis a thought
That has no touch of sadness;

I joy to think that I have brought
To thee so much of gladness.

Such thoughts I fain would leave behind

To maidens that are fair and kind,

When I am far away.

SONG.

HAVE you seen the stars at morning, How they blend with rising day, Paling still and still adorning

All the morn with their decay;

Paling, blinking,

Coyly winking,

While the gold usurps the

grey?

So the fancies of the heathen,
Brightest stars of heathen night,
Slowly of their reign bereaven,
Lose themselves in Gospel light.
Stars of warning

Melt in morning,

End their task and bid good night.

SONG.

You ask me to sing-I'd be glad if I could
Sing like a thrush in the underwood,

Like a twinkling lark that sings up in the sky,
Or a swan that sings only when going to die.
Ere now I have sung, when my heart was young,
Like cock-crow loud and clearly,

But I cannot sing now I protest, I vow,
Because I love you dearly.

Could I sing like a syren-but that would I not, Could I sing like a minstrel whose name is forgot, But whose strain is a treasure which all men may

borrow,

To harmonise joy and to sweeten their sorrow,

Oh, then I would sing to my dear, dear thing,

Like cock-crow loud and clearly,

But I cannot sing now, I protest, I vow,
Because I love you dearly,

Could I sing what I feel, and express by a note

How wisely esteeming, how fondly I dote,

Then would music no more be a uice thing of art,
But as in old time the true voice of the heart.
I could sing all day long-sing song after song,
Like an angel singing clearly,

But I cannot sing now, I

protest, I Vow,

Because I love you dearly.

THE SOLACE OF SONG.

WHEN on my mother's arm I lay
A happy helpless thing,
Still was I glad by night and day
To hear my mother sing.

Baby, baby, do not cry,
It was a lovely lullaby.

I was a boy, a wayward boy,
And yet I still would cling,

With something like a baby joy,
any that could sing.

VOL. II.

Το

Sing up, sing high, a merry lay,
For 'tis a merry holiday.

P