WORDSWORTH.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.

HE imperial consort of the fairy king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal

shell

Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure-for the tasks of spring
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-gleaming nest,—a hollow crown

Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow :
I gaze-and almost wish to lay aside
Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride!

GRAHAME.

H

THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.

OW calm that little lake! no breath of wind Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems, Held in the concave of the inverted sky,— In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood! Fearless of harm, they row their easy way; The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows, Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track. Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes. Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs, Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in; Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims, And eager barks; the harmless flock, dismayed, Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds, All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait To lure the foe, and lead him from their young; But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore. Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding fall, And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.

BRYANT.

HITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps

of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou

pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;—

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone-the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form: yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT,

CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.