A violet by a mossy stone
      Half-hidden from the eye! 
    Fair as a star, when only one
      Is shining in the sky.

    She lived unknown, and few could know
      When Lucy ceased to be;
    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
      The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

 SOLITUDE.

    Happy the man, whose wish and care
    A few paternal acres bound,
    Content to breathe his native air
                In his own ground.

    Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
    Whose flocks supply him with attire;
    Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
                In winter fire.

    Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
    Hours, days, and years slide soft away
    In health of body, peace of mind,
                Quiet by day,

    Sound sleep by night; study and ease
    Together mixt, sweet recreation,
    And innocence, which most does please
                With meditation.

    Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
    Thus unlamented let me die;
    Steal from the world, and not a stone
                Tell where I lie.

ALEXANDER POPE.

 JOHN ANDERSON

“John Anderson,” by Robert Burns (1759-96).  This poem is included to please several teachers.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
    When we were first acquent
    Your locks were like the raven,
    Your bonnie brow was brent;
    But now your brow is bald, John,
    Your locks are like the snow;
    But blessings on your frosty pow,
    John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
    We clamb the hill thegither,
    And mony a canty day, John,
    We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
    Now we maun totter down, John,
    But hand in hand we’ll go,
    And sleep thegither at the foot,
    John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

 THE GOD OF MUSIC.

“The God of Music,” by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living.  In this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals.

    The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. 
    All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet,
    Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet
    From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: 
    A solemn harmony:  on leafy floors
    To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet,
    Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet
    In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. 
    Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream. 
    And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze;
    Leave me the viol’s frame in secret trees,
    Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme;
    Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. 
    The God of Music dwelleth out of doors.

EDITH M. THOMAS.