IN November days,

When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon;
and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went

In solitude, such intercourse was mine:

'T was mine among the fields both day and night, And by the waters all the summer long.

WORDSWORTH.

FOR him the Spring

Distils her dew, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing ;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreproved.

AKENSIDE.