Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

SURPRISED BY JOY, — IMPATIENT AS THE WIND.

URPRISED by joy,—impatient as the wind

I wished to share the transport,

with whom

But thee, long buried in the silent tomb!
That spot which no vicissitude can find.

Love, faithful love recalled thee to my

mind,

But how could I forget thee? - Through

what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss? That thought's

return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no

more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn, Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING.

T is a beauteous evening, calm and
free;

The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me

here,

If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature therefore is not less divine:

Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom" all the

year;

And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly

striven,

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;

For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be

That mountain floods should thunder as

before,

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802.

FRIEND! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed

To think that now our life is only dressed For show; mean handiwork of craftsman,

cook,

Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now, in Nature or in book,
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

LONDON, 1802.

ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a
fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
O, raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like

the sea;

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.