AFTER WORDSWORTH

HE lived amidst th' untrodden ways To Rydal Lake that lead; A bard whom there was none to praise And very few to read. Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden, who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky. Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe" With dust is dark and dim; It's still in Longmans' shop, and oh! The difference to him. Anonymous.

HE dwelt among “Apartments let," About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try. A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife—and O! The difference to me! Phœbe Cary.

THERE is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— It winds about like any hare; And then it holds as straight a course As, on the turnpike road, a horse, Or, through the air, an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing: Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever must be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery. Fixed are their feet in solid earth Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river's brink, And of the living waters drink. There's little Will, a five years' child— He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy. He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar-rose,— The blue-bells are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should he not continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long. Catherine M. Fanshawe.

I JOURNEYED, on a winter's day, Across the lonely wold; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold. I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack. A little girl ran by the side, And she was pinched and thin. “Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride! I'm fetching mother's gin." “Enter my coach, sweet child," said I, “For you shall ride with me; And I will get you your supply Of mother's eau-de-vie." The publican was stern and cold, And said: “Her mother's score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door!" I blotted out the score with tears, And paid the money down; And took the maid of thirteen years Back to her mother's town. And though the past with surges wild Fond memories may sever, The vision of that happy child Will leave my spirits never! Rudyard Kipling.

I MARVELLED why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death. Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, “I've got a pain inside! “I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, “What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, “Only seven!" “And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; “Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!" “If that's the case," I stammer'd out, “Of course you've had eleven." The maiden answered with a pout, “I ain't had more nor seven!" I wonder'd hugely what she meant, And said, “I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles. “Now, if you won't reform," said I, “You'll never go to Heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, “I ain't had more nor seven!"

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, “Lines after Ache-Inside." Henry S. Leigh.

POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained. She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained. Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding,—you infer. Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her! Newton Mackintosh.