THE PERFECT WOMAN.

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 are stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn:
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

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.

THE PERFECT WOMAN.

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And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt 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.

ODE ON QUIET LIFE.

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

On 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 mixed; 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.

POPE.

Thy steps, Almighty !-here, amidst the crowd,
Through the great city rolled,

With everlasting murmur deep and loud-
Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round Heaven, and on their dwellings lies,

And lights their inner homes;

For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,

And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; And this eternal sound

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.

And when the hours of rest

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-

The quiet of that moment too is Thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.