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Thy early smile has stayed my walk,
on thy humble stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortune tried;
Awakes the painted tribes to light;
That made the woods of April bright.
140.—LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT.
Before us, tinged with evening hues,
The boat her silent course pursues !
A little moment passed so smiling!
Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
141.—THE NIGHTINGALE. [SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.]
'Tis the merry nightingale
Would be too short for him to utter forth
142.-A HAPPY LIFE. [HENRY Wotton.]
That serveth not another's will;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:
And having nothing, yet hath all.
143.- WOODS IN WINTER. [H, W. LONGFELLOW.]
1. When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill That over-brows the lonely vale.
2. O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.
3. Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay; And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.
4. Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear Has grown familiar with
your song; I hear it in the opening year:
I hear it, and it cheers me long.
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie; Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with a clear blue
In grateful silence earth receives
The general blessing: fresh and fair Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share. The sun breaks forth. From off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature. Hear her voice,
Which sounds from all below, above: She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love: Drink in her influence. Low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And ’mid this living light expire.
145.-SUMMER EVENING. (Isaac WILLIAMS.]
1. The moon is in her azure tower,
Like the heaven's bright eye, The nightingale beneath her bower
Singing joyfully. There is that o'er Earth and Heaven, Which, through cloudless gates of even, Tells the tenants of this ballThough around them be a thrall — They are something more than all
That they seem to be.