A mantle, to her ve Descending with a g And on her head a

Her skin was of Eg Haughty, as if her Its own light to a di She towered, fit pers To lead those ancien Or ruling Bandit's v

Advancing, forth sh And begged an alms

That ceased not; on

Such woes, I knew,

And yet a boon I ga Was beautiful to see

I left her, and pursu And soon before me A pair of little Boys Chasing a crimson b The taller followed v Wreathed round with

The other wore a rimless crown,

With leaves of laurel stuck about;

And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,

In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit

For finest tasks of earth or air:

Wings let them have, and they might fit
Precursors to Aurora's car,

Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,

To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level

green.

They dart across my path,-but lo,

Each ready with a plaintive whine!

Said I, "Not half an hour ago

Your Mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answered, "she is dead:"

I looked reproof,-they saw,-but neither hung his head.

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”

"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!"

And, in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come! come!" cried one, and, without more ado,

Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew !

WORDSWORTH MOUNTAIN.

THERE is an Eminence,-of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun;
We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
And, when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this Peak, so high
Above us, and so distant in its height,
Is visible; and often seems to send
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
In the mid-heavens, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And she who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me,

Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

THE OAK AND THE BROOM.

A PASTORAL.

I.

HIS simple truths did Andrew glean

Beside the babbling rills;

A careful student he had been

Among the woods and hills.

One winter's night, when through the trees

The wind was roaring, on his knees
His youngest-born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy choir,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This Tale the Shepherd told.

II.

"I saw a crag, a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat!

Out of its head an Oak had grown,

A Broom out of its feet.

The time was March, a cheerful noon,

The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west;
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,

His neighbor thus addressed:

III.

"Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay

Along this mountain's edge,

The Frost hath wrought both night and day,

Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up! and think, above your head

What trouble, surely, will be bred;

1

Last night I heard a crash,—'tis true,
The splinters took another road;

I see them yonder,-what a load

For such a thing as you!

IV.

"You are preparing, as before, To deck your slender shape;

And yet, just three years back-no more—
You had a strange escape:

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward pursued its way;

This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!

•

V.

"If breeze or bird to this rough steep

Your kind's first seed did bear,

The breeze had better been asleep,

The bird caught in a snare:

For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both

you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour.