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Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home :

The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.



CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield

A vivid repetition of the stars;

Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed

At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.

Is it a mirror?-or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds
Her own calm fires ?-But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds
"Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds

Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"


THE stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest

Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest ;
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,

A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;

All that we see-is dome, or vault,' or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command.

Glad thought for every season! but the Spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year's prolific art—
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower-was fashioning
Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.


WANSFELL! this Household has a favoured lot,
Living with liberty on thee to gaze,

To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays,
Or when along thy breast serenely float

Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note

Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
Of glory lavished on our quiet days.


Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone
From every object dear to mortal sight,
As soon we shall be, may these words attest

How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone
Thy visionary majesties of light,

How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.


Dec. 24, 1842



FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!

Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?

Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!



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 have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered 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 to-night 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!


MARK the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns :-and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,

Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,

In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose

Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees! And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:

For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.


It 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 broods o'er 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 untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

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