William Wordsworth was born in 1770 and died at Rydal Mount in 1850.  He was educated in Cambridge, where he graduated in 1791.  He traveled on the continent before that, but he settled down for several years in Dorset.  A visit from Coleridge determined his career in 1796.  He was again abroad in 1798, but returned the following year and went to live at Grasmere in the Lake District.  He held severai government positions and was poet laureate from 1843 to his death.  His chief works are, “The Evening Walk,” “Descriptive Sketches,” “The Excursion,” “White Doe of Rylston,” “Thanksgiving Ode,” “Peter Bell,” “Waggoner,” “River Duddon,” A Series of Sonnets, “The Borderers,” “Yarrow Revisited,” and “The Prelude.”

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
   One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
   Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I’ve thought of all by turns, and still I lie
   Sleepless; and soon the small birds’ melodies
   Must hear, first utter’d from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.

Even thus last night and two nights more I lay,
   And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth;
So do not let me wear tonight away;
   Without thee what is all the morning’s wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
   Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Charles Lamb was born at London in 1775.  His most successful writings are the “Tales from Shakespeare” (written in collaboration with his sister), and his “Essays of Ella.”  Lamb died in 1834.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I pace round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
   I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
   And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
   Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
   With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
   Haply I think on thee and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising,
   From sullen earth), sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
   That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Sweetheart, good-by!  The fluttering sail
   Is spread to waft me far from thee;
And soon before the favoring gale
   My ship shall bound across the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
   These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm—
   Though lost to sight, to memory clear.

Sweetheart, good-by!  One last embrace!
   Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever!
Yet in this heart’s most sacred place
   Thou, thou alone, shall dwell forever.
And still shall recollection trace
   In fancy’s mirror, ever near,
Each smile, each tear, upon that face—
   Though lost to sight, to memory dear.

At last ’tis gone, the fever of the day—
      Thank God, there comes an end to everything;
      Under the night cloud’s deepened shadowing,
The noises of the city drift away
Thro’ sultry streets and alleys, and the gray
      Fogs ’round the great cathedral rise and cling.
      I long and long, but no desire will bring
Against my face the keen wind salt with spray.

O, far away, green waves, your voices call;
      Your cool lips kiss the wild and weedy shore;
            And out upon the sea line sails are brown—
White sea birds, crying, hover—soft shades fall—
      Deep waters dimple ’round the dripping oar,
            And last rays light the little fishing town.