TO THE UNSATISFIED.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier-all the world is thine!

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,

Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty, and thy wealth, are gone.

Nature wears the color of the spirit;

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.

HARRIET WINSLOW.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till Life can charm no more,
And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious Winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash ;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

YORK AND LANCASTER.

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!

SHAKSPEARE.

YORK AND LANCASTER.

If this fair rose offend thy sight,
Placed in thy bosom bare,

"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

As kiss it thou mayst deign,

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkish turn again.

ANONYMOUS.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,

Stitch, stitch, stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;