Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embat tled pile, And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. T. B. Macaulay. VI. LUCY. HE dwelt among the untrodden ways A Maid whom there were none to praise A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me! W. Wordsworth. VII. ON HIS BLINDNESS. HEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, That murmur, soon replies :-'God doth not need J. Milton. VIII. TO EVENING. Faught of oaten* stop or pastoral song Thy springs, and dying gales ; O Nymph reserved,-while now the bright-haired sun O'erhang his wavy bed, * Oaten, consisting of an oat straw or stem. Oat is often used for a tuneful instrument made of oat-straw. + Brede, braid. Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, Thy genial loved return. For when thy folding-star* arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; The gradual dusky veil. *Folding-star, Hesperus, the evening star. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! W. Collins. IX. JAFFAR. AFFAR, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer. And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust All but the brave Mondeer.-He, proud to show 'Bring me this man,' the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. 'Welcome, brave cords,' cried he; 'From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; 'From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; 'Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; 'Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 'With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?' Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 'The caliph's judgment shall be master still. Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, "The richest in the Tartar's diadem, 'And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.' 'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took; and holding it High towards the heavens, as though to meet his star, Leigh Hunt. X. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch |