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CCCXXXI. MARY HOWITT, 179*_18**,

THE STRAWBERRY GIRL'S SONG. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it .ooks ; There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine sa

the brooks; A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happysmile on each young lip, and gladnesseverywhere. Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the

woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the op'ning

buds; Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's

root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit ? They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief to me,

— When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye

can see ; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy

and gem ;

It may be so—and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the

rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the

scent it breathes ! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green

leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and

sights, Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm

delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing—sweet summer, come

again.

OCCXXXII. JOHN KEATS, 1796–1820.

1. TO PAN. O Thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death, Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken: And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reedsIn desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now, By thy love's milky brow! By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan?

!

Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare, while in half-sleeping fit;
Or upward raggeu precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells,
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples and fir cones brown,--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king !

O hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating : Wirder of the horn,
When snouted wild boars, routing tender corn,
Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms :

:

Strange ministrant of undescribéd sounds,
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors :
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge—see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows,
With leaves about their brows.

Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven,
That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth,
Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth :
Be still a symbol of immensity ;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between ;
An unknown-but no more: We humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan,
Upon thy mount Lycean !

2. BEAUTY. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever! CCCXXXIII. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 1796-1849

SONNET.
What was't awakened first the untried ear

Of that sole man who was all human kind ?

Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ?
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near,

Their lulling murmurs all in one combined ?

The note of bird unnamed i The startled hind
Bursting the brake-in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground

Send forth mysterious melody to greet

The gracious presence of immaculate feet? Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,

Making sweet music out of air as sweet ? Or his own voice awake him with its sound ?

1

CCCXXXIV. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD 1796-1828.

THE DEEP.

There's beauty in the deep :-
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow,
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep :
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore ;-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
But little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks away.

There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep :-
Above, let tide and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ;
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow to the end :
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.

There's quiet in the deep.
CCCXXXV. EDWIN ATHERSTONE, 1796--18**
LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.

There was a man,
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.

,

He had a son, it was a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire
In face and gesture. In her pangs she died
That

gave him birth; and ever since the child Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport
The father shared and heightened. But at length
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot
He felt in all its bitterness :—the walls
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh
And heart-heav'd groan. His tale was known, and touch'd
His jailor with compassion ;-and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence that in every wound
Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast
Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn,
Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came.

The iron door was closed-for them
Never to open more! The day, the night,
Dragged slowly by ; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot at length, and thick ; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fettered soldier sunk-and with deep awe
Listened the fearful sounds :-with upturned eye
To the great gods he breathed a prayer ;-then strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep :-
His body burned with feverish heat ;-his chains
Clanked lond although he moved not : deep in earth

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