Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.
"BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
Exclaimed an angry voice,
'Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"
A small cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.
"Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off, off! or, puny thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock,
To which thy fibres cling."
The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;
But, seeing no relief, at last,
He ventured to reply.
"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed
What pleasure through my veins you spread!
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
When spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves-now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.
But now proud thoughts are in your breastWhat grief is mine you see,
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left-
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter day,
A happy Eglantine!"
What more he said I cannot tell,
The Stream came thundering down the dell
With aggravated haste;
I listened, nor ought else could hear;
The Briar quaked—and much I fear
Those accents were his last.
OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.
BY WORDSWORTH.
MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest Star, upon the height
Of thy* own mountain, set to keep
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine?
These crowded offerings as they hang
In sign of misery relieved,
Even these, without intent of theirs,
Report of comfortless despairs,
Of many a deep and cureless pang
And confidence deceived.
To thee, in this aërial cleft,
As to a common centre tend
All sufferers that no more rely
On mortal succour—all who sigh
And pine, of human hope bereft,
Nor wish for earthly friend.
And hence! O Virgin Mother mild!
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
Not only from the dreary strife
Of winter but the storm of life,
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled,
Our Lady of the Snow.
Even for the man who stops not here,
But down the irriguous valley hies,
Thy very name, O Lady! flings,
O'er blooming fields and gushing springs,
A tender sense of shadowy fear,
And chastening sympathies!
Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer-gladsomeness unkind:
It chastens only to requite
With gleams of fresher, purer light;
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade,
More sweetly breathes the wind.
But on! a tempting downward way,
A verdant path before us lies;
Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? The nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler!-that love-prompted strain
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain :
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of heaven and home!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.-BORN 1771; DIED 1832.
THE LAST MINSTREL.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;
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