II. How lonesome! how wild! yet the wildness is rife WILSON. Chide not my wanderings, mother! nor believe The crumbs I throw them; 'tis a merry sight Taps on the tree, unheeding; redbreast takes so in truth do I. No spot so distant, in this spacious vale, Rock-side, or margin of the winding brook. Nurtured in solitude, this feeling grew And mould, with plastic power, the yielding mind. MY NATIVE PLACE. Sweet interchange Of hill, and valley, river, woods, and plains. What wonder if the love of nature then MILTON. Was strong within me, e'en from childhood's dawn; Ere yet I mingled with the herd of men, Or wandered, from my native vale withdrawn. The genius of this quiet spot serene Wrought on my heart, and sways its movements still : The gentle curvature of yonder hill, Clothed to its cultured top with living green, The river's steady flow, the clattering mill, The farm-house's busy group, yon winding rill, LEAVING HOME FOR SCHOOL. I. And then the whining school boy, with his satchel, SHAKSPEARE. The loss of home, how poignant was the grief, When, from the parent roof constrained to part, Its bitter pang transfixed my youthful heart! The world's cold kindness gave not then relief, But sickened rather. Oft the tear would start, But then, with scornful laugh, came one, who, young Yet early hardened, could such pain deride, And taunt my weakness with sarcastic tongue, That shamed, at once, and roused me: manly pride And just resentment dashed the tear aside; Yet could not long the rising grief o'rrule, Home sick, heart riven, by that first week at school. II. Shades of the prison house begin to close WORDSWORTH. Possessions that, while held, are, in our eyes, Deemed little worth, to tenfold value rise, When held no more. 'Tis thus, in nightly dream, My home sick fancy revels mid the joys Night still restores me to my native stream, An infant architect, where oft my hand The mud-dam built, or water wheel had planned; Or chambers hollowed in the yielding sand; Why better worth, since ne'er enjoyed so well? THE BOY TYRANT. See how he beats, whom he has just reviled, CRABBE. Among my early inmates there was one, And patient in revenge, no favours done By force and fraud: each idler is his tool, But chief, the sensitive and tender boy, THE LATIN GRAMMAR. The drilled dull lesson, forced down, word by word. The Latin Grammar can I think again, BYRON. In patience, on that sickness of the heart, When words of uncouth sound and rules of art, To me unmeaning, as replete with pain, Sought entrance first on my reluctant brain. |