A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy;
And there myself and two beloved Friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.

Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore— Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line

Of the dry wreck.

Not seldom did we

And, in our vacant mood,

stop to watch some tuft

Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake.

Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand!

And starting off again with freak as sudden;

In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,

Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its very playmate and its moving soul.

WORDSWORTH.

NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

UP this green woodland side let's softly rove,
And list the nightingale; she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I've heard her many a merry year—
At morn, at eve-nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where the old-man's-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way;
And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails;
There have I hunted like a very boy,

Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn,
To find her nest, and see her feed her young,
And vainly did I many hours employ:
All seem'd as hidden as a thought unborn;
And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel's under-boughs, I've nestled down
And watch'd her while she sang; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as 't were with joy ;
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer's fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancy shapen her employ.
But if I touch'd a bush, or scarcely stirr'd,
All in a moment stopt. I watch'd in vain :
The timid bird had left the hazel-bush,
And oft in distance hid to sing again.

CLARE.