A RECOLLECTION.

And there with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud,
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of jocund din! And when there came a pause
Of silence, such as baffled his best skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale

Where he was born: the grassy churchyard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

WORDSWORTH.

245

OOK at those sleeping children-softly tread

Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nigh,
Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,

"Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah, they are dead!
Yet folded in each other's arms they lie

So still-oh, look!-so still and smilingly-
So breathing and so beautiful they seem
As if to die in youth were but to dream
Of spring and flowers !—of flowers?
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,

As if its cup with tears was wet.

Yet nearer stand,

So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death,

And seeming still to hear her sister's breath

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CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

As when she first did lay her head to rest

Gently on that sister's breast,

And kissed her ere she fell asleep!

The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.

Take up those flowers that fell

From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!

Your spirits rest in bliss!

Yet ere with parting prayers we say

"Farewell for ever," to the insensate clay,

Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!

Ah! 'tis cold marble! Artist, who hast wrought
This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,
Thine, Chantrey, be the fame

That joins to immortality thy name.

For these sweet children that so sculptured rest,

A sister's head upon a sister's breast,

Age after age shall pass away,

Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.

For here is no corruption, the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form;
This smile of death that fades not shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age;

, Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
Shall gaze with tears upon the monument.
And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath,
"How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!"

LISLE BOWLES.

248

THE VILLAGE BOY.

SONNET.

ETURN content, for fondly I pursued,

Even when a child, the streams, unheard, unseen,
Through tangled woods, impending rocks between;
Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed

The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood,

Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen,
Green as the salt sea billows, white and green,
Poured down the hills, a choral multitude!
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains;
They taught me random cares and truant joys,
That shield from mischief and preserve from stains
Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ;
Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise
Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins.

WORDSWORTH.

THE VILLAGE BOY.

REE from the cottage corner, see how wild

The village boy along the pasture hies,

With every smell and sound and sight beguiled,

That round the prospect meets his wondering eyes;

Now, stooping eager for the cowslip peeps,

As though he'd get them all,—now tired of these

Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps

For some new flower his happy rapture sees;

THE YOUNG POET.

Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees,

On woodland banks for blue-bell flowers he creeps;
And now while looking up among the trees,

He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers,

And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies,

The happiest object in the summer hours.

CLARE.

THE YOUNG POET.

570! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees on high amidst the encircling groves,
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join,

And echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah, no! he better knows great nature's charms to prize.

And oft he traced the uplands to survey,

When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,

And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn;

Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn,

Where twilight loves to linger for a while;
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

And villager abroad at early toil;

But, lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean smile.

249