From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die

The scentless and the scented rose

When the harvest moon was beaming

Softly through the dewy leaves

Sole light admitted here, a small cascade

Illumes with sparkling from the twilight shade

For them the moon with cloudless ray

Mounts, to illume their homeward way

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,

A rude and natural causeway.

Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear

The noise might drive her from her home of love

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in the grove I sat reclin'd

Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,

That in the thickets of the woodbine hide

Here he loved to sit,

His only visitants a straggling sheep,

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird.

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light

Blends with the solemn colouring of night

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The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more
The noise astounds

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Towards the Church-yard he had turned aside.

Go staggering through the fords

Bearing his Brother on his back

Yon precipice ;-it almost looks

Like some vast building made of many crags

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round

At a short distance from my cottage stands

A stately Fir-grove

In a cottaged vale she dwells,

Listening to the Sabbath bells!

'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire,

With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"

We met in secret, in the depth of night

When there was none to watch us

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay

I could not pray :-through tears that fell in showers

I saw my own dear home, that was no longer ours

Those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove

His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes,

Through crags and forest glooms and opening lakes

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;

On Christmas Eve the mass was sung

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon

As mine own shadow was this child to me,

A second self, far dearer and more fair

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Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,

Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen

Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel

The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!

Giant-like their shadows grow,

Lengthened o'er the level ground

But sidelang we look'd on

Ilk ither in turn

Cold fear no more the songster's voice is sealing;

Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song

And flocks which cluster to their bell,

Recline along thy brink

When, by the margin of the trembling lake,

Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk

From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,

As the sun sets, to weep o'er the grave of my bride.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name

His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-

Though younger than himself full twenty years

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock

And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,

Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers

There by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen

Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog

Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours

Of winters past, or coming, void of care

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town

Now who is he that bounds with joy

On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?

While to my fond words she listened

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs

On the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together

The downy feather on the cordage hung

Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun

And, rising from those lofty groves,

Behold a Ruin hoary!

Short would be the summer day,

Ever loving more and more

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That cottage, with its walls so white, and gabled roof so quaint

We walked along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun

I looked at her, and looked again :

-And did not wish her mine

Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious swain,

Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain

And gentle winds, and waters near,

Make music to the lonely ear

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She has a Baby on her arm,

Or else she were alone