WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1800. Mr. Wordsworth resides at Grassmere. He is reported to possess a beautiful wife, a Yorkshire lady, his union with whom was characterised by that eccentric enthusiasm which constitutes the charm of his poetry. THREE years she grew in sun and shower, This Child I to myself will take; Her Teacher I myself will be, The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn Or up the mountain springs; And her's shall be the breathing balm, The floating Clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Ev'n in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear Where Rivulets dance their wayward round, And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Thus Nature spake-The work was done- She died and left to me This heath; this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be! SHE dwelt among the' untrodden ways A Maid whom there were none to praise, A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the Eye! - Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She liv'd unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceas'd to be; But she is in her Grave, and, Oh! The difference to me. N. S. S. L. 1800. All that can be related respecting the following exquisite productions of the amatory muse, must excite, instead of gratifying curiosity. They were inserted in a Novel, that never experienced the attention its merits deserved, and are believed to have been written by a very beautiful and highly accomplished young Lady, perhaps still residing in the vicinity of Southampton. Who will not regret, that the author of such poems has thought fit to shade herself under the veil of obscurity? As effusions of genuine passion and refined sensibility, they are not surpassed either by her predecessors or contemporaries. AWAKE, my Harp, some joyful measure! Awake, my Harp, some joyful measure! O Love! some call thy musings folly, And some there are who can dissemble Ah! though thy charms were all illusion, Thou know'st, O Love! how I have blest thee, O Love! some call thy musings folly; ELEGY. ALAS! my friend, how vainly dost thou tell Binds him more firmly to my aching heart: Or I would court the silken smiles of Pleasure, Nor mirth, nor distant space, nor change of season, All, all are vain,-but chief thy boasted Reason, His virtues, graces, genius, she repeated, I scarce had seen him ere I lost my own. Then Reason whisper'd he could ne'er deceive me, To catch his looks of love, his heavenly smile. Even now when adverse Fortune bids us sever, Thus the heart-rending pangs of secret sadness, ELEGY. 'Twas sweet as violet-breathing gale, Alas! and was it but a dream? Methought I saw him once again, |