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UP with me I up with me, into the clouds !

For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds !

Singing, singing,
With all the heavens about thee ringing,

Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind I

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,

And to-day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a faery,

Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine ;
Lift me, guide me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky !

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest ; And, though little troubled with sloth, Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loath To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy liver ! With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both!

Hearing thee, or else some other,

As merry a brother, I on the earth will go plodding on, By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.


_" Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find.

By their floating mill,

Which lies dead and still, Behold yon prisoners three ! The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames The platform is small, but there's room for them all ; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats, To their house and their mill tethered fast; To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have pass'd.

In sight of the spires,

All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance,—there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel,

And their music's a prey which they seize :
It plays not for them,-what matter ! 'tis theirs ;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please !"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the Spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing, If the wind do but stir for his proper delight Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ; They are happy, for that is their right!


THERE was a boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander | Many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call, -with quivering peals,
And long haloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind,
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

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