But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail! -'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Rogers. 80. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them with the sound The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime The cottage homes of England! They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Mrs. Hemans. 81 - ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER'S EVENING. WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see: But how he will come, and whither he goes, He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, Books have we to read,—but that half stifled knell, Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in ; By a Female Friend of Wordsworth. 82. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet A foggy day in winter-time) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead: Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair; She begged an alms like one in poor estate: I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, She answered, soon as she the question heard, 66 "A simple burden, Sir, a little singing bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a son, who many a day "Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; "In Denmark he was cast away; "And I have travelled many miles to see "If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his; "This singing-bird had gone with him: "From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care "Had left it, to be watched and fed, "And pipe its song in safety;—there 66 I found it when my son was dead: "And now, God help me for my little wit! "I bear it with me, Sir:-he took so much delight in it." Wordsworth. 83.- - WE SCATTER SEEDS. WE scatter seeds with careless hand And dream we ne'er shall see them more; Their fruit appears In weeds that mar the land Or healthful store. The deeds we do the words we say Into still air they seem to fleet; We count them ever past- In the dread judgment, they And we shall meet! Keble. |