TRIUMPHAL arch that fill'st the sky,

When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A mid-way station given

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant brow?

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

Now who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?

No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.

Can this be he who hither came

In secret, like a smothered flame?

O'er whom such thankful tears were shed

For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath willed
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The Lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her Babe did say:
"My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best!"

WORDSWORTH.

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