From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not :
May joy be theirs while life shall last!

And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And blest are they who in the main

This faith, even now, do entertain:

Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried ;
No sport of every random gust,

Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust;
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task imposed, from day to day;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if

I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought;
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires :

My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face;

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee,
are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
O, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;

The confidence of reason give;

And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live!

NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM.

JUNS fret not at their convent's nar

row room;

And hermits are contented with their

cells;

And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest peak of Furness Fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth, the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 87

In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find short solace there, as I have found.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

HE world is too much with us; late

and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste

our powers:

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flow

ers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less for-
lorn,

Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

ARTH has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples
lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;