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It is not to be thought of that the flood

It is the first mild day of March
It seems a day

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished-at his side

Lie here, without a record of thy worth

Life with yon lambs, like day, is just begun

Loud is the vale! the voice is up

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour

Most sweet is it with unuplifted eyes

My heart leaps up when I behold

Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

Nor can I not believe but that hereby

Not in the lucid intervals of life.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room

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O dearer far than light and life are dear

O friend! I know not which way I must look
O nightingale! thou surely art

O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought
Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray

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Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee
On his morning rounds the master

On man, on nature, and on human life

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side
Pleasures newly found are sweet

Return, content! for fondly I pursued

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Rotha, my spiritual child! this head was grey

Sacred religion, "mother of form and fear "

Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned

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See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built cot.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways

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Six thousand veterans practised in war's game
Small service is true service while it lasts

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Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played

Stay near me-do not take thy flight
Stern daughter of the voice of God
Strange fits of passion have I known
shower

Sweet Highland girl, a very

Tax not the royal saint with vain expense

The cock is crowing.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink

The gallant youth, who may have gained

The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
The little hedgerow birds

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The minstrels played their Christmas tune
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute
The post-boy drove with fierce career

The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire

The world is too much with us; late and soon
There is a flower, the lesser celandine
There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton vale

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"There!" said a stripling, pointing with meet pride
There's not a nook within this solemn pass
There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
There was a roaring in the wind all night.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
These times touch monied worldlings with dismay
These tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
They called thee Merry England, in old time.
Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Though many suns have risen and set
Three years she grew in sun and shower
Too frail to keep the lofty vow .

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high
Two voices are there; one is of the sea

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Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent

Wansfell! this household has a favoured lot
We talked with open heart, and tongue

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We walked along, while bright and red
What crowd is this? what have we here ! we must not pass it by
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
What lovelier home could gentle fancy choose?
"What, you are stepping westward?"-"Yea"
When first, descending from the moorlands
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When Ruth was left half desolate

When, to the attractions of the busy world
Where are they now, those wanton boys?

Where art thou, my beloved son

Where lies the land to which yon ship must, go?

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Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
Where will they stop, those breathing powers
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
Why, William, on that old grey stone
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
Wisdom and spirit of the universe!
Within our happy castle there dwelt one
With sacrifice, before the rising morn

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Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

THE END:

Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.

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