THE WAYSIDE SPRING.

FAIR dweller by the dusty way,

Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweetbrier and the violet,
The pious hand of Spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim's knee; But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink;
And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here from the sultry harvest-fields

The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar mask'd with tan,
In rusty garments grey with dust,
Here sits and dips his little can,
And breaks his scanty crust;

And, lull'd beside thy whispering stream,

Oft drops to slumber unawares,

And sees the angel of his dream

Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,

Thou saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day,

Weary and worn, is thine!

READ.

83

IN November days,

When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went

In solitude, such intercourse was mine:

'T was mine among the fields both day and night, And by the waters all the summer long.

WORDSWORTH.