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With footing worne, and leading in

ward far: Faire harbour that them seems; so

in they entred are.

And forth they passe, with pleasure

forward led, Joying to heare the birdes' sweete

harmony, Which therein shrouded from the

tempest dred, Seemed in their song to scorne the

cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so

straight and high, The sayling pine; the cedar proud

and tall; The vine-propp elme; the poplar ney

er dry; The builder oake, sole king of for

rests all; The aspine good for staves; the cy

presse funerall; The laurell meed of mightie con

querours And poets sage; the fir that weep

eth still; The willow, worne of forlorne para

mours; The yew, obedient to the bender's

will; The birch for shaftes; the sallow for

the mill; The mirrhe sweet-bleeding in the

bitter wound; The warlike beech; the ash for

nothing ill; The fruitful olive; and the platane

round; The carver holme; the maple, seldom inward sound.


Of Umfraville or Percy ere they

marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that

crossed the sea, And drew their sounding bows at

Azincour; Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poic

tiers. Of vast circumference and gloom

profound This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnifi

cent To be destroyed. But worthier still

of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrow

dale, Joined in one solemn and capacious

grove; Huge trunks! and each particular

trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately con

volved ; Nor uninformed with fantasy, and

looks That threaten the profane; a pillared

shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red

brown hue, By sheddings from the pining um

brage tinged Perennially; beneath whose sable

roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose,

decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly

shapes May meet at noontide; Fear, and

trembling Hope, Silence, and Foresight; Death the

Skeleton, And Time the Shadow; there to cele

brate, As in a natural temple scattered

o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy

stone, United worship; or in mute re

pose To lie, and listen to the mountain

flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.



THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lor

ton Vale, Which to this day stands single in

the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of

yore: Not loath to furnish weapons for the




OFTEN, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one

now, And now the other, to point out,

perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed

too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there

are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly

that tall fern, So stately, of the queen Osmunda

named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by

the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the

Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.


SWEET-SCENTED flower! who art

wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
And o’er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay

And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful

wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and

long, The melody of death..

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to

dwell With the pale corse in lonely

tomb, And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with



Beneath the lowly alder-tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare in

trude To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.

THE bush that has most briers and

bitter fruit: Wait till the frost has turned its

green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate

suit, And thou mayst find e’en there a

homely bread. Upon the hills of Salem scattered

wide, Their yellow blossoms gain the eye

in spring; And, straggling e’en upon the turn

pike's side, Their ripened branches to your hand

they bring. I've plucked them oft in boyhood's

early hour, That then I gave such name, and

thought it true; But now I know that other fruit as

sour Grows on what now thou callest me

and you: Yet wilt thou wait, the autumn that

I see Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.


And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,

And, sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild

is mine;
It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone

spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.



Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the yeere ?

Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with

dew? I will whisper to your eares, The sweets of love are mixt with


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The waves beside them danced; but

they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

Swells like the bosom of a man set

free: A wilderness is rich with liberty.

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COME, seeling night, Skarf up the tender eye of pitiful

day, And, with thy bloody and invisible

hand, Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great

bond Which keeps me pale! - Light thick

ens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood.




OFT when, returning with her loaded

bill, Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant

nest, By the hard hand of unrelenting

clown Robb'd; to the ground the vain pro

vision falls; Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping Can bear the mourner to the poplar

shade; Where, all abandoned to despair, she

sings Her sorrows thro’ the night; and on

the bough Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall Takes up again her lamentable strain Of winding woe, till, wide around,

the woods Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.


STAR of the flowers, and flower of the

stars, And earth of the earth, art thou ! And darkness hath battles, and light

hath wars That pass in thy beautiful brow.

The eye of the ground thus was

planted by heaven, And the dust was new wed to the

sun, And the monarch went forth, and

the earth-star was given, That should back to the heaven-star



So in all things it is: the first origin

lives, And loves his life out to his flock; And in dust, and in matter, and na

ture, he gives The spirit's last spark to the rock.


THou wast not born for death, inn

mortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee

down; The voice I hear this passing night

was heard In ancient days by emperor and


They are gone, they are gone; but I

go not with them, I linger to weep o'er its desolate


Perhaps the selfsame song that found

a path Through the sad heart of Ruth,

when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien


The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening

on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.


They say if I rove to the south I

shall meet With hundreds of roses more fair

and more sweet; But my heart, when I'm tempted to

wander, replies, Here my first love, my last love, my

only love lies. When the last leaf is withered, and

falls to the earth, The false one to southerly climes

may fly forth; But truth cannot fly from his sor

rows: he dies, Where his first love, his last love, his only love lies.





MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully,

And die away my heart! The rose, the glorious rose, is gone,

And I, too, will depart.

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did

Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Terer., tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in

vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear

thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer

King Pandiva, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing;
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.


The skies have lost their splendor,

The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world,

Should music linger on?

Where is the golden sunshine,

And where the flower-cup's glow? And where the joy of the dancing

leaves, And the fountain's laughing flow? Tell of the brightness parted,

Thou bee, thou lamb at play! Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!

Are ye, too, passed away?

With sunshine, with sweet odor,

With every precious thing, Upon the last warm southern breeze,

My soul its flight shall wing:


Round my own pretty rose I have

hovered all day, I have seen its sweet leaves one by

one fall away:

Alone I shall not linger

When the days of hope are past, To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,

To wait the rushing blast.

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