As it was beaded ere the daylight hour: As yet no busy insects buzz about, No fairy thunder o'er the air is rolled. The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout: And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold.” "Hark! hark! the lark" sings 'mid the silvery blue, And, pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide. In belted gold the bees with "merry march" And there the hidden river lingering dreams, You scarce can see the banks which round it lie; A chequer'd light streams in between the leaves, And ever as she drinks doth upward look, Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloister'd nook. Hark, how the merry bells ring o'er the vale, Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows. From his thatch'd grange his answering rival crows: And now her song rings through the green hedge-rows, -- I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight. The leaves "drop, drop," and dot the crisped stream I WANDERED LONELY. More than any other poet, WORDSWORTH saw and sung the soul that is in Nature. All natural objects were to him a source of boundless wonder and delight, and his pulses throbbed in sympathy with them; they were food for thought long after. Thus, having observed the dance of a bed of daffodils, he did not, like most of us, forget them when they were out of sight; they realized to him the saying of Keats, "that a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," and they inspired these verses, in which they will live as long as our language. I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they I gazed, and gazed, but little thought For oft, when on the couch I lie, And then my heart with pleasure fills HYMN OF THE CITY. The reader, who enjoyed BRYANT'S "Forest Hymn" (ante, p. 40), will be pleased to contrast it with this one, inspired by a very different scene; but the treatment of it is equally appropriate. NOT in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see And sunny vale the present Deity; Or only hear His voice Where the winds whisper, and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!-here, amidst the crowd With everlasting murmur deep and loud Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round Heaven, and on their dwelling lies, For them Thou fill'st with air th' unbounded skies, Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores. Thy Spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng- Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, The quiet of that moment too is thine; THE DEATH BED. HOOD's fame was acquired as a comic writer, and he did not succeed in divesting himself of that character, although no man ever composed more powerful serious poetry. How touching is this! WE watch'd her breathing through the night, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came dim and sad, THE DREAM OF LOVE. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, who inherited the genius, as well as many of the human weaknesses, that distinguished his father, and who if he had lived longer might have filled a loftier and larger place in the literature of his country, is the author of this sweet sonnet. Ir must be so-my infant love must find PRAYER. To whom is this exquisite poem not familiar? Yet must it be repeated here. A collection of Beautiful Poetry would be incomplete without it. The author is JAMES MONTGOMERY, the sweetest of the religious poets of England. PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The upward glancing of an eye, |