BERNARD BARTON.

I.

TO MY WIFE.

THE butterfly, which sports on gaudy wing;
The brawling brooklet, lost in foam and spray,
As it goes dancing on its idle way;

The sunflower, in broad daylight glistening;
Are types of her who in the festive ring
Lives but to bask in fashion's vain display,
And glittering through her bright but useless day,
"Flaunts, and goes down a disregarded thing!"
Thy emblem, Lucy, is the busy bee,

Whose industry for future hours provides ; The gentle streamlet, gladding as it glides Unseen along; the flower which gives the lea Fragrance and loveliness, are types of thee, And of the active worth thy modest merit hides.

O, SAY not so! A bright old age is thine,
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine

At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all He sends with gratitude receives;
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!
And hence thy fireside chair appears to me

A peaceful throne, which thou wert formed to fill ;

Thy children ministers who do thy will;

And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee, Thy little subjects, looking up to thee

As one who claims their fond allegiance still.

* A good sonnet. Dixi. - CHARLES LAMB.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

I.

PLEASANT, VOLUNTARY PRISON OF THE SONNET.

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves no prison is; and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground,

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.*

* It is a very bold general proposition to say that "nuns fret not at their narrow rooms" and that "hermits are content with their cells." Thousands of nuns, there is no doubt, have fretted horribly, and do fret; and hermitages have proved so little satisfactory, that we no longer hear of their existence in civilized countries. We are to suppose, however, that the poet alludes only to such nuns and hermits as have been willing to be solitary. So also in regard to

II.

PLACID OBJECTS OF CONTEMPLATION.

Nor Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange,
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loath to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river,
Diaphanous, because it travels slowly.

Soft is the music that would charm forever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

the spinning maids, and the weavers. The instances are not thoroughly happy; for the spinning and the weaving are too often anything but voluntary, however cheerfully made the best of. The rest of the sonnet is very good and pleasant, and the reflection respecting "the weight of too much liberty" admirable.

III.

WANTING SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,

Now on the water vexed with mockery.

I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child,
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.