I shall not dazzle or shiver,
I shall be happy anywhere,
Every breath of the morning air
Makes me throb and quiver.

Stay wherever you will,

By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river:
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,
Wheel, wheel through the shadow ;
There must be odors round the pine,
There must be balm of breathing kine,
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Must I choose? Then anchor me there
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where
The larch is snooding her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shadow.

Among the thickest hazels of the brake
Perchance some nightingale doth shake
His feathers, and the air is full of song;
In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,

(I know it even now)

Where, since the flit of bat,

In ceaseless voice he sat,

Trying the spring night over, like a tune,
Beneath the vernal moon;

And while I listed long,

Day rose, and still he sang,
And all his stanchless song,

As something falling unaware,

Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,

Fellringing down the ringing morn, and rang, -
Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.

My soul lies out like a basking hound,
A hound that dreams and dozes;

Along my life my length I lay,

I fill to-morrow and yesterday,

I am warm with the suns that have long since set, I am warm with the summers that are not yet, And like one who dreams and dozes

Softly afloat on a sunny sea,

Two worlds are whispering over me,
And there blows a wind of roses

From the backward shore to the shore before,
From the shore before to the backward shore,
And like two clouds that meet and pour
Each through each, till core in core

A single self reposes,

The nevermore with the evermore

Above me mingles and closes;

As my soul lies out like the basking hound,
And wherever it lies seems happy ground,
And when, awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye uncloses,

I see a blooming world around,
And I lie amid primroses,
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses,
Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

O to lie a-dream, a-dream,

To feel I may dream and to know you deem
My work is done forever,
And the palpitating fever,

That gains and loses, loses and gains,

And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a

thousand pains,

Cooled at once by that blood-let
Upon the parapet;

And all the tedious taskéd toil of the difficult long endeavor

Solved and quit by no more fine
Than these limbs of mine,
Spanned and measured once for all
By that right hand I lost,
Bought up at so light a cost

As one bloody fall

On the soldier's bed,

And three days on the ruined wall

Among the thirstless dead.

O to think my name is crost

From duty's muster-roll;

That I may slumber though the clarion call,

And live the joy of an embodied soul

Free as a liberated ghost.

O to feel a life of deed

Was emptied out to feed

That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,
That fire from which I come, as the dead come
Forth from the irreparable tomb,

Or as a martyr on his funeral pile
Heaps up the burdens other men do bear
Through years of segregated care,
And takes the total load
Upon his shoulders broad,
And steps from earth to God.

O to think, through good or ill,
Whatever I am you'll love me still;
O to think, though dull I be,
You that are so grand and free,
You that are so bright and gay,
Will pause to hear me when I will,
As though my head were gray;

As a child that holds by his mother,
While his mother speaks his praises,
Holds with eager hands,
And ruddy and silent stands
In the ruddy and silent daisies,
And hears her bless her boy,
And lifts a wondering joy,
So I 'll not seek nor sue her,
But I'll leave my glory to woo her,
And I'll stand like a child beside,
And from behind the purple pride
I'll lift my eyes unto her,
And I shall not be denied.

And you will love her, brother dear,
And perhaps next year you 'll bring me here
All through the balmy April tide,
And she will trip like spring by my side,
And be all the birds to my ear.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,
And see the Aprils one by one,
Primrosed Aprils on and on,
Till the floating prospect closes
In golden glimmers that rise and rise,
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,
And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,

O, SAY what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?

What are the blessings of the sight,
O, tell your poor blind boy !

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 't were always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy :
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

COLLEY CIBBER.

DIVERSITY OF FORTUNE.

FROM "MISS KILMANSEGG."

WHAT different dooms our birthdays bring!
For instance, one little manikin thing
Survives to wear many a wrinkle;
While death forbids another to wake,
And a son that it took nine moons to make
Expires without even a twinkle :

Into this world we come like ships,
Launched from the docks, and stocks, and slips,

For fortune fair or fatal;
And one little craft is cast away
In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay,
While another rides safe at Port Natal.

What different lots our stars accord!
This babe to be hailed and wooed as a lord!

And that to be shunned like a leper!
One, to the world's wine, honey, and corn,
Another, like Colchester native, born
To its vinegar only, and pepper.

One is littered under a roof

Neither wind nor water proof,

That's the prose of Love in a cottage,

A puny, naked, shivering wretch,
The whole of whose birthright would not fetch,
Though Robins himself drew up the sketch,

The bid of "a mess of pottage."

Born of Fortunatus's kin,
Another comes tenderly ushered in

To a prospect all bright and burnished :
No tenant he for life's back slums,

He comes to the world as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnished.

And the other sex - the tender the fair -
What wide reverses of fate are there!

Whilst Margaret, charmed by the Bulbul rare,

In a garden of Gul reposes, Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till think of that, who find life so sweet!

She hates the smell of roses !

THOMAS HOOD.

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee,
When Echo bandied round and round
The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone blind.

And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices.

But O the heavy change! - bereft

Ofhealth, strength, friends and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty :

His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick,

His body dwindled and awry
Rests upon ankles swollen and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child;
His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them Which he can till no longer ?

Oft, working by her husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill From labor could not wean them, 'T is little, very little, all

That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

Do his weak ankles swell.

My gentle reader, I perceive

How patiently you 've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle reader! you would find
A tale in everything.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it :
It is no tale; but should you think,
Perhaps a tale you 'll make it.

One summer day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavor
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked forever.

THE ORPHANS.

My chaise the village inn did gain,
Just as the setting sun's last ray
Tipped with refulgent gold the vane
Of the old church across the way.

Across the way I silent sped,
The time till supper to beguile,
In moralizing o'er the dead

That mouldered round the ancient pile.

There many a humble green grave showed
Where want and pain and toil did rest;
And many a flattering stone I viewed
O'er those who once had wealth possest.

A faded beech its shadow brown

Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept,
On which, though scarce with grass o'ergrown,
Two ragged children sat and wept.

A piece of bread between them lay,
Which neither seemed inclined to take,
And yet they looked so much a prey
To want, it made my heart to ache.

"My little children, let me know
Why you in such distress appear,
And why you wasteful from you throw
That bread which many a one might cheer?"

The little boy, in accents sweet,
Replied, while tears each other chased,
"Lady! we've not enough to eat,
Ah! if we had, we should not waste.

"But Sister Mary 's naughty grown,
And will not eat, whate'er I say,
Though sure I am the bread's her own,
For she has tasted none to-day."

"Indeed," the wan, starved Mary said,
"Till Henry eats, I'll eat no more,
For yesterday I got some bread,

He 's had none since the day before."

My heart did swell, my bosom heave,
I felt as though deprived of speech;
Silent I sat upon the grave,

And clasped the clay-cold hand of each.

With looks of woe too sadly true,

With looks that spoke a grateful heart,
The shivering boy then nearer drew,
And did his simple tale impart :

"Before my father went away,
Enticed by bad men o'er the sea,
Sister and I did naught but play, -
We lived beside yon great ash-tree.

"But then poor mother did so cry,
And looked so changed, I cannot tell;
She told us that she soon should die,
And bade us love each other well.

"She said that when the war was o'er, Perhaps we might our father see ; But if we never saw him more,

That God our father then would be !

"She kissed us both, and then she died,
And we no more a mother have;
Here many a day we've sat and cried
Together at poor mother's grave.

"But when my father came not here,

I thought if we could find the sea,
We should be sure to meet him there,
And once again might happy be.

"We hand in hand went many a mile,
And asked our way of all we met;
And some did sigh, and some did smile,
And we of some did victuals get.

"But when we reached the sea and found
'T was one great water round us spread,
We thought that father must be drowned,
And cried, and wished we both were dead.

"So we returned to mother's grave,
And only longed with her to be ;
For Goody, when this bread she gave,
Said father died beyond the sea.

"Then since no parent we have here,
We'll go and search for God around;
Lady, pray, can you tell us where

That God, our Father, may be found ? "He lives in heaven, our mother said, And Goody says that mother's there; So, if she knows we want his aid,

I think perhaps she'll send him here."

I clasped the prattlers to my breast,

And cried, "Come, both, and live with me; I'll clothe you, feed you, give you rest, And will a second mother be.

"And God shall be your Father still, 'T was he in mercy sent me here, To teach you to obey his will,

Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer."

ANONYMOUS.

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale;

Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale;

Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy!

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,
She could not bear to hear my joy ;
For with my father's life 't was bought, -
And made me a poor orphan boy !

The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
"Rejoice! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd,
My mother answered with her tears !
"O, why do tears steal down your cheek,"
Cried I, "while others shout for joy?"
She kissed me; and in accents weak,
She called me her poor orphan boy!

"What is an orphan boy?" I said;

When suddenly she gasped for breath, And her eyes closed! I shrieked for aid, But ah! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell; But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah! lady, I have learned too well What 't is to be an orphan boy!

O, were I by your bounty fed !

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep; what is 't you say? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy !

LITTLE NED.

MRS. OPIE.

ALL that is like a dream. It don't seem true!
Father was gone, and mother left, you see,
To work for little brother Ned and me;
And up among the gloomy roofs we grew,
Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out,
With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,
While mother chared for poor folk round about,
Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street.
Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair,
To make the time pass happily up there,
A steamboat going past upon the tide,

A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,