THE STREET MUSICIAN.

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Mark that cripple !-but little would tempt him to try
To dance to the strain and to fling his crutch by !-
That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound!

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs-they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

R

L

WORDSWORTH.

WHERE the little babbling streamlet
First springs forth to light,
Trickling through soft velvet mosses,

Almost hid from sight:

Vowed I with delight,

"River, I will follow thee,

Through thy wanderings, to the sea."

DISCOURAGED.

Gleaming 'mid the purple heather,
Downward then it sped,

Glancing through the mountain gorges

Like a silver thread.

As it quicker fled,

Louder music in its flow,

Dashing to the vale below.

Then its voice grew lower, gentler,

And its pace less fleet,

Just as though it loved to linger
Round the rushes' feet,

As they stooped to meet
Their clear images below,
Broken by the ripples' flow.

Purple Willow-herb bent over
To her shadow fair;

Meadow-sweet, in feathery clusters,

Perfumed all the air;

Silver-weed was there,

And, in one calm, grassy spot,

Starry, blue Forget-me-not.

Tangled weeds, below the waters,
Still seemed drawn away;
Yet the current, floating onward,
Was less strong than they ;-

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