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4. So, serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng, So, would I seem among the

gay, More grave than they : That in my age as cheerful I might be, As the green winter of the Holly Tree.

young and


[JOHN CLARE.] Welcome, red and roundy Sun,

Dropping lowly in the West : Now my hard day's work is done,

I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,

Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till to-morrow morning's come,

Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
All day long I love the oaks,

But, at night, yon little cot, Where I see the chimney smokes,

Is by far the prettiest spot. Wife and children all are there,

To revive with pleasant looks, Table ready set, and chair,

Supper hanging on the hooks.

Welcome, red and roundy Sun,

Dropping lowly in the West :
Now my hard day's work is done,

I'm as happy as the best.


(WILLIAM CowPER.] Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warmed, while it lasts, by labour, all day-long They brave the season: and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles while she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear But dying soon, like all our earthly joys; The few small embers left she nurses well, And while her infant race with outspread hands And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content with cold, so they be warm.With all this thrift they thrive but scantily They live, and live without extorted alms, From grudging hands; but other boast have none, To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, No comfort else but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy

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Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel !

Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel

Help, as if from faery power:
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,

Couch the widely scattered sheep;
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!

For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed, more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred

By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread

Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

137.-SUNSET. [THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.] How sweet it is, at this delightful hour, When earth is fresh with April's sunny shower,

To wander through some green and quiet lane
O'erhung by briars and wild flowers wet with rain;
And view the sun, descending to his rest,
Lead his bright triumph down the gorgeous West.
Amid the glories of that radiant sky
Dun wreaths of cloud with crimson dappled lie.
Dyed by the sinking rays the heavens assume
A brilliant tint of deep and rosy bloom.
At length the cottage-windows cease to blaze,
And a soft veil of dew and silvery haze
Floats o'er the watery meadows. All is still
Save the faint trickling of the pebbly rill,
The beetle's drowsy hum, the bat’s shrill wail,
Or thrilling chant of love-lorn nightingale.
The stream hath darkened to a purple hue:
The turf is fresh with cool and fragrant dew.
Who loves not then with upward-gazing eye

into the deep abyss of sky,
And here and there to catch some lonely star.
Twinkling in humid lustre from afar?



This little rill, that from the springs,
Of yonder grove its current brings;
Plays on the slope awhile, and then
Goes prattling through the woods again :

Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet, when life was new.

Years change it not. Upon yon hill
The tall old maples, verdant still,
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,
How swift the years have passed away,
Since first a child, and half afraid,
I wandered in the forest shade.

It changes not.—But I am changed,
Since first its pleasant banks I ranged,
And the grave stranger come to see
The play-place of his infancy,
Has scarce a single trace of him
Who sported once upon its brim.


When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the spring-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming

Besides the snow-bank's edges cold.

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