Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him

in;

May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his

din :

Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. By a female friend of Wordsworth.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair :
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time's brightest, liveliest dawn.
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.—

Wordsworth.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud-it has sung for three years;

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but

they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

ALICE FELL.

Wordsworth.

The post-boy drove with fierce career,

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned:

When suddenly I seemed to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound,—and more and more;
It seemed to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; And soon I heard upon the blast

The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"
And there a little girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

"My cloak!" no other word she spoke,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would burst;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, child?"-she sobbed, "Look here!"

I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow dangled.

'Twas twisted between nave and spoke :
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the cloak-
A miserable rag indeed!

"And whither are you going, child,

To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild— "Then come with me into the chaise."