POETRY.
WORDSWORTH'S WEDDING (OcronER 4ra, 1802).
ALONG these lanes the sweet wild rose
Hath bloomed and faded, year by year: Between its banks the Derwent flows With tranquil current, amber-clear. Forge Valley woods at eventide Have caught—bow oft !—the sunset glow, Since Wordsworth roamed the country side A hundred years ago.
He left awhile his native land, Its lakes, and rocks, and purple fells, And mist-encircled hills that stand Like forms of giant sentinels.
The rushing stream, the lonely glen, He left them for a little space, And came among us Yorkshiremen,— Himself of Yorkshire race.
And if we ask what Fancy drew His steps to these our woods and dales, 'Twas Love's old story, always new, That never wearies, never stales.
For him, within a certain farm Was treasure, waiting to be won: His soul had felt the gentle charm Of Mary Hutchinson.
Her quiet homestead, russet-tiled, That stood amidst its trees and flowers, Where Wordsworth day by day beguiled The softly gliding summer hours,— About each nook and corner still A fragrant, far-off memory hovers; You scarce can think of Gallows Hill Without its pair of lovers.
"A perfect woman, nobly planned "- We know the strong and tender line, As, heart to heart and hand in hand, They entered Love's enchanted shrine. His helpmeet, his companion dear, His steadfast, never-failing friend, His human angel, always near, True wife unto the end !
At length, one bright October morn, In Brompton Church the vow was sealed: The reapers, busy with the corn, Paused from their labour in the field, As 'twixt the elms on either side, Through glancing shadow and golden sun, He led her home a happy bride, And Yorkshire's part was done.
But Brompton Steeple, old and gray, Still points above the autumn trees ; The generations pass away,
The years lead on the centuries.
That morn is now a shadowy dream ; In Grasmere Church the lovers lie : And gentle Rotha.'s rippling stream Flows musically by.
Wykeham, Yorkshire.
W. H. SATILE.
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