The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LONDON.

ATHWART the sky a lowly sigh

From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;

His light in all the city tarried:

The clouds on viewless columns bloomed

Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.

"O sweetheart, see! how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or swung in space of heaven's grace
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,

Afloat upon ethereal tides,

St. Paul's above the city rides!"

A rumor broke through the thin smoke

Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, The million-peopled lanes and alleys, An ever-muttering prisoned storm, The heart of London beating warm.

JOHN DAVIDSON.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

66
FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS."

Ан me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies,
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise.
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chauncèd to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire,

Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame : They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,

Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt air, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stow, Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,

But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low;

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LONDON.

АTHWART the sky a lowly sigh

From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;

His light in all the city tarried:

The clouds on viewless columns bloomed Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.

"O sweetheart, see! how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or
swung in space of heaven's grace
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,
Afloat upon ethereal tides,

St. Paul's above the city rides!"

A rumor broke through the thin smoke

Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, The million-peopled lanes and alleys, An ever-muttering prisoned storm, The heart of London beating warm.

JOHN DAVIDSON.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

66

FROM THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

AH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies,
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise.
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chauncèd to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire,

Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame: They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,

Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt air, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stow, Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,

But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat

low;

And as they looked, they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield :
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the harebell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air:
'T was simple russet, but it was her own;

'T was her own country bred the flock so fair, "T was her own labor did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound,

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt forsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear:

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,

Who should not honor eld with these revere;