"The people's shouts were long and loud,
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
'Why are you crying thus,' said I,
'While others laugh and shout with joy?'
She kissed me and with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.
"What is an orphan boy?' I cried,

As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,
'You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!'
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

"Oh, were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide-
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep!-ha!-this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy, orphan boy!"

William Wordsworth.

Born 1770.

Died 1850.

WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, on the 7th April 1770. His father was in comfortable circumstances, and was able to give the poet a first-rate education. After being some years at Hawkesworth School in Lancashire, he was entered at St John's College, Cambridge, in 1787 After completing his studies, Wordsworth travelled for some time on the Continent on foot, carrying some necessaries in a pocket-handkerchief. The revolutionary mania, then at its crisis, made a deep impression on the poet's sensitive mind, and led him to publish in 1793 “ Descriptive Sketches" and "An Evening Walk." In 1795 a friend left him a legacy of L.900, which, with some money received for his works, enabled him to live tolerably for about eight years. In 1798, Wordsworth in conJunction with Coleridge projected "Lyrical Ballads," to which the latter contributed "The Ancient Mariner." The publisher gave thirty guineas for the volume. It appears that the bookseller made a poor speculation with it, so little was the style and subject of the ballad at first appreciated. "The Edinburgh Review" denounced his verses as second-rate nursery rhymes. In 1798 Wordsworth went to Germany

for a few months, and on his return he settled at Grasmere, where he lived for eight years. In 1802 he married Mary Hutchinson, a cousin of his own, and with whom he had been long intimate. It is remarkable that several of Wordsworth's pieces were written many years before they were published, and even after publication some changes were made by him. In 1805 he wrote his Waggoner," and began "The Prelude;" the former was not published till 1819, and the latter not till after his death. He was jealous of his fame, and afraid of bringing out any poem prematurely, and as his income, though not great, was enough for his wants, he was not driven by necessity to publish. In 1807 appeared two volumes of his poetry, which, though assailed with the severest criticism, began to work their way into the public mind; amid all the imperfections, and sometimes puerilities of his language, there was something so noble and impressive in his worship of the natural, that slowly but surely the influence of his poetry began to impress those who had most mercilessly condemned him. In 1813 he removed from Grasmere to Rydal Mount, where he resided till his death. In 1814 appeared "The Excursion," "brimful of splendid thoughts and beautiful in their drapery of glowing eloquence." Wordsworth about this time obtained through the influence of Lord Lonsdale the situation of distributor of stamps, with a salary of L.300 a year; this, with his literary income, placed him in easy circumstances. He held the post for twenty-eight years. The publications of Wordsworth were now numerous, and up to 1842 consisted of seven volumes in all. In 1843 he was appointed laureate, with a pension of L.300 per annum, succeeding his friend Southey. Wordsworth died on 23d April 1850, full of years and honours. A host of young poets have since arisen who did him homage; and even those who formerly depreciated his poems, now join in the tribute to his genius. "The Prelude," a kind of autobiography begun forty-five years before, was published shortly after his death.

FROM "THE EXCURSION."

THE mountain-ash,

Decked with autumnal berries that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show,
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen,
By a brook-side or solitary turn,

How she her station doth adorn the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brightened round her. In his native vale
Such and so glorious did this youth appear;
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,
By all the graces with which Nature's hand
Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form:

Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade
Discovered in their own despite to sense
Of mortals (if such fables without blame
May fiud chance-mention on this sacred ground)
So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise,
And through the impediment of rural cares,
In him revealed a scholar's genius shone;
And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight,
In him the spirit of a hero walked

Our unpretending valley.-How the quoit
Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him,
The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch
Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve,
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field!
The indefatigable fox had learned
To dread his perseverance in the chase.
With admiration he could lift his eyes
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand
Was loath to assault the majesty he loved,
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak
To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead,
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe,
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves,
And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes,
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere,
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim.

FROM "AN EVENING WALK."

FAR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove
Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;
His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes,
Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes,
Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore;
Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads,
To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads;
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;
Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps
'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps ;
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore,
And memory of departed pleasures, more.

Fair scenes! erewhile I taught, a happy child,
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild;
Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand
Sad tides of joy from melancholy's hand;
In youth's wild eye the livelong day was bright,
The sun at morning, and the stars at night,
Alike, when first the vales the bittern fills
Or the first woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills.
In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain,
And hope itself was all I knew of pain;

For then, even then, the little heart would beat
At times, while young Content forsook her seat,
And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed,
Where, tipp'd with gold, the mountain summits glowed
Alas! the idle tale of man is found
Depicted in the dial's moral round;
With hope Reflection blends her social rays
To gild the total tablet of his days;

Yet still the sport of some malignant power,
He knows but from its shade the present hour.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A SIMPLE child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.