Thus Nature spake - the work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

III.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

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!

IV.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea, that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds, that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

V.

SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind-
But how could I forget thee? - Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

VI.

WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER
BRIDGE.

EARTH has not any thing to shew more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Ah me! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WORDSWORTH.

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.

When a strong man armed keepeth his palace, his goods are in peace; but when a stronger than he shall come upon him and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils.--ST. LUKE xi. 21, 22.

SEE Lucifer like lightning fall,

Dashed from his throne of pride;
While, answering thy victorious call,
The saints his spoils divide;

This world of thine, by him usurped too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal thy servants' wrong.

So when the first-born of thy foes
Dead in the darkness lay,

When thy redeemed at midnight rose,
And cast their bonds away,

The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and told

Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and her gold.

And when their wondrous march was o'er,
And they had won their homes,
Where Abraham fed his flock of yore,
Among their fathers' tombs;-

A land that drinks the rain of heaven at will, Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad

hill ;

Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve,
A gale from bowers of balm

Sweep o'er the billowy corn, and heave
The tresses of the palm,

Just as the lingering sun had touched with gold,
Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;

It was a fearful joy, I ween,

To trace the heathen's toil,

The limpid wells, the orchards green,

Left ready for the spoil,

The household stores untouched, the roses bright Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.

And now another Canaan yields

To thine all-conquering ark ;

Fly from the "old poetic" fields,
Ye Paynim shadows dark!

Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,
Lo! here the "unknown God" of thy unconscious

praise!

The olive wreath, the ivied wand,
"The sword in myrtles drest,"
Each legend of the shadowy strand
Now wakes a vision blest:

As little children lisp, and tell of heaven,
So thoughts beyond their thought to those high bards

were given.

And these are ours: thy partial grace

The tempting treasure lends :

These relics of a guilty race

Are forfeit to thy friends:

What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of thee, Tuned by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.

There's not a strain to Memory dear,
Nor flower in classic grove,
There's not a sweet note warbled here,
But minds us of thy Love.

O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,
There is no light but thine! with thee all beauty glows.

KEBLE.

MONDAY BEFORE EASTER.

Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel acknowledge us not. -ISAIAH 1xiii. 16.

"FATHER to me thou art and mother dear,

"And brother too, kind husband of my heart"

So speaks Andromache in boding fear,

Ere from her last embrace her hero part

So evermore, by Faith's undying glow,
We own the Crucified in weal or woe.