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The light extinguished of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandoned to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave!"

A RAM REFLECTED IN THE WATER.-Wordsworth.
Forth we went,

And down the vale along the streamlet's edge
Pursued our way, a broken company,
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs.
Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched
The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw
A two-fold image; on a grassy bank
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood
Another and the same! Most beautiful,
On the green turf, with his imperial front
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb,
The breathing creature stood; as beautiful,
Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart.
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky,
And each seemed centre of his own fair world:
Antipodes unconscious of each other,

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres,
Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.-Miss Mitford.

He who first raised from Gothic gloom
Our tongue, here Chaucer finds a tomb:
Here gentle Spenser, foulest stain
Of his own Gloriana's reign!

And he who mocked at Art's control,

The mighty master of the soul,

Shakspeare, our Shakspeare!-By his side,
The man who poured his mighty tide:
The brightest union genius wrought,

Was Garrick's voice and Shakspeare's thought.
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes!
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes!

Here Newton lies!-and with him lie
The thousand glories of our sky;
Stars, numerous as the host of heaven,
And radiant as the flashing levin!
Lo, Chatham! the immortal name
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame!
Here, his long course of honours run,
The mighty father's mighty son:
And here Ah! wipe that falling tear!
Last, best, and greatest, Fox lies here.
Here, sleep they all: on the wide earth
There dwell not men of mortal birth,
Would dare contest Fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little
space.
O, could some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live!
It were a sight to charm dull age,
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the deaf man cure,
The widow from her tears allure,
And moping idiots tell the story
Of England's bliss and England's glory.
And they do live !-Our Shakspeare's strains
Die not whilst English tongue remains :
Whilst light and colours rise and fly,
Lives Newton's deathless memory:
Whilst freedom warms one English breast,
There Fox's honoured name shall rest.
Yes, they do live!-they live to inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallowed fire;
Like sparks from heaven they make the blaze,
The living light of genius' rays;

Bid England's glories flash across the gloom,
And catch her heroes' spirit from their tomb.

THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE.-Macaulay.

The King is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, ́l Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are coming. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies,-upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turn'd his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St Bartholomew !" was pass'd from man to man:
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe;
Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne ;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright:
Ho! burghers of St Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night,
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave,
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre !

HAY-MAKING AND SHEEP-SHEARING.-Thomson.

Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead:
The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong; full as the summer rose
Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid,
Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all
Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek:

Even stooping age is here; and infant hands
Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load
O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll.
Wide flies the tedded grain: all in a row
Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
They spread the breathing harvest to the sun,
That throws refreshful round a rural smell;
Or as they rake the green appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
The russet haycock rises thick behind,
In order gay; while, heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labour, love, and social glee.

Or, rushing thence, in one diffusive band, They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, And that fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides; and oft the swain, On some impatient seizing, hurls them in. Emboldened then, nor hesitating more, Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, And, panting, labour to the farthest shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt The trout is banished by the sordid stream; Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints The country fill; and, tossed from rock to rock, Incessant bleatings run around the hills. At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed Head above head; and ranged in lusty rows The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. Dilf

The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,
With all her gay-dressed maids attending round.
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned,
Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays
Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king;
While the glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace.
Some, mingling, stir the melted tar; and some,
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side,
To stamp the master's cipher ready stand:
Others the unwilling wether drag along;
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram.
Behold, where bound, and of its robe bereft,
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies!
What softness in its melancholy face,
What dumb-complaining innocence appears :
Fear not, ye gentle tribes; 'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved:
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who, having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again.

THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS
ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.-Akenside.

Behold the ways

Of heav'n's eternal destiny to man,

For ever just, benevolent, and wise:
That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing fortune and intrusive pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, pleasure. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion swelling with distress and pain,

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