COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

ARTH has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty :

This city now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Never saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802.

WO Voices are there; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven : Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave, to that which still is left ; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

WILLIAM Wordsworth.

URPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh, with whom
But thee, deep-buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ALM is all nature as a resting wheel.

The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Is cropping audibly his later meal :

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale and mountain, and the starless sky;
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh, leave me to myself! nor let me feel

The officious touch that makes me droop again.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

OW sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold girl who plays her agile pranks

At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks, When she stands cresting the clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

And leap at once from the delicious stream.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH