SONNET ON THE DEATH OF WORDSWORTH.

Beneath the solemn shadow he doth sleep Of his own mountains! closed the poet's eyes To all earth's beauty—wood, and lake, and skies, And golden mists that up the valleys creep. Sweet Duddon's stream and Rydal's grassy steep, The "snow-white lamb," his cottage-maiden's prize, The cuckoo's note, and flowers, in which his wise And gentle mind found "thoughts for tears too deep"— These, Wordsworth! thou hast left; but oh, on these, And the deep human sympathies that flow Link'd with their beauty, an immortal train, Thy benediction rests; and as the breeze Sweeping the cloud-capp'd hills is heard below. Descends to us a rich undying strain! H. M. R.