Hail active Nature's watchful life and health!

Her joy, her ornament, and wealth!

Hail to thy husband Heat, and thee!

Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he!

Say, from what golden quivers of the sky

Do all thy winged arrows fly?

Swiftness and power by birth are thine;

From thy great Sire they came, thy Sire, the Word divine.

Thou in the moon's proud chariot, proud and gay,
Doest thy proud wood of stars survey,

And all the year dost with thee bring

Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring.

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above
The Sun's gilt tent for ever move,

And still as thou in pomp dost go,

The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn
The humble glow-worms to adorn,

And with those living spangles gild,

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field.

At thy appearance, Grief itself is said

To shake his wings, and rouse his head;

And cloudy care has often took

*

A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look.

All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes,
Is but thy several liveries

Thou the rich dye on them bestowest,

Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wearest;

A crown of studded gold thou bearest;

The virgin lilies, in their white,

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The violet, Spring's little infant, stands

Girt in thy purple swaddling bands:

On the fair tulip thou dost dote;

Thou clothest it in a gay and parti-coloured coat.

Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea,
Which open all their pores to thee,

Like a clear river thou dost glide,

And with thy living stream through the close channels slide.

Solitude.

IT is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that makes me moan:
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home:
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast

COWLEY.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leave is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording Sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale:

I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

Isaac Ashford.

NEXT to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died,
Noble he was, contemning all things mean;
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene;
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid!

At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:

KIRKE WHITE.

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face.
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning,-though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed!
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained;

Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied,

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there:-
But he is blest, and I lament no more,

A wise good man contented to be poor.

The Skylark.

BIRD of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth;
Where on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

CRABBE.