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The Robin, Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip in the Woods Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, of Rydal A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip

Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay
Which the Muse warms; and I, whose headisgrey,
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship;
Nor could I let one thought—one motionslip
That might thy sylvan confidence betray.
For are we not all His without whose care
Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground?
Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air,
And rolls the planets through the blue profound ;
Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor forbear
To trust a Poet in still musings bound.

Ministering When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
spirits Like a Form Sculptured on a monument

Lay couched ; on him or his dread bow unbent
Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile
The rigid features of a transient smile,
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent,
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment
From his loved home, and from heroic toil.
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us move,
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal ;
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove
To fettered wretchedness that no Bastille
Is deep enough to exclude the light of love,
Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.
WHILE Anna's peers and early playmates tread, Anna's Owl
In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge;
Or float with music in the festal barge ;
Rein the proud steed, or through the dance are led;
Her doom it is to press a weary bed-
Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge
More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large,
And friends too rarely prop the languid head.
Yet, helped by Genius-untired comforter,
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her
Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies,
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout ;
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes.

Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard To the
When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill Cuckoo
Like the first summons, Cuckoo ! of thy bill,
With its twin notes inseparably paired.
The captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired,
Measuring the periods of his lonely doom,
That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room
Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared.
The lordly eagle-race through hostile search
May perish ; time may come when never more
The wilderness shall hear the lion roar;
But, long as cock shall crow from household perch
To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing,
And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring!

Lesbia's “Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw
Dove Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed.

Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew
Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed;
But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew,
Whence the poor unregarded Favorite, true
To old affections, had been heard to plead
With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain
Of harmony !-a shriek of terror, pain,
And self-reproach! for, from aloft, a Kite
Pounced,—and the Dove, which from its ruth-

less beak
She could not rescue, perished in her sight!

The Infant UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace Mary Monk- Forgets her nature, opening like a flower house That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power

In painful struggles. Months each other chase,
And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no trace
Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek ;
Prompt, lively, self sufficing, yet so meek
That one enrapt with gazing on her face
(Which

even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more

bright)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith,
The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light;
A nursling couched upon her mother's knee,
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.

Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright, To Lady Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined F-, in her

Seventieth By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite

year Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st

my sight,

When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ;
Thatchild of winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive Evening deepens into night.

Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey To Rotha
When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Quillinan
Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood,
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay :
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day
For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ;
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,
Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain

Stream
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear
Since thou dost bear it,-a memorial theme
For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.

DOO

A Grave- “ MISERRIMUS/and neither name nor date, stone in the Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone ; cloisters of Worcester

Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,
Cathedral That solitary word—to separate

From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
Who chose his epitaph ?--Himself alone
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate,
And claim, among the dead, this awful crown;
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own
Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place,
That

every foot might fall with heavier tread,
Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass
Softly !-To save the contrite, Jesus bled.

0 T o T A И S Y T

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Roman WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Antiquities Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, at Bishop- Takes fire :_The men that have been reappear ; stone

Romans for travel girt, for business gowned ;
And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned,
In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear,
As if its hues were of the passing year,
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that

mound
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins,
Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil :
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
Of tenderness—the wolf

, whose suckling Twins The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.

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