But, with a chirrup clear and strong, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long, My ramble ended, I return'd; The floating wreath again discern'd, I saw him with that lily cropp'd, My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd Charm'd with the sight, "The world," I cried, 66 "Shall hear of this thy deed; 'My dog shall mortify the pride "Of man's superior breed; "But chief myself I will enjoin, “Awake at duty's call, "To show a love as prompt as thine "To Him who gives me all." OFT have I heard of Lucy Gray; No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew Cowper. You yet may spy the fawn at play, "To-night will be a stormy night 66 That, Father! will I gladly do; ""Tis scarcely afternoon "The minster-clock has just struck two, "And yonder is the Moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, They wept-and turning homeward, cried, When in the snow the mother spied Then downwards from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed: Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song Wordsworth. 4.-BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! Wolfe. 5. ON A FAVORITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side Her conscious tail her joy declared: Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gazed, but midst the tide The hapless nymph with wonder saw: With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; Presumptuous maid! with looks intent |