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11 ApPy the feeling from the bosom thrown
WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal : Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, seems to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends ! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain : Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again.
Nuns fret dot at their convent's narrow room;
ADMONITION, Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have
happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retrent, in
ibo Country of the Lakes.
– The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Even thine, though few thy wants ! – Roof, window, Why have I crowded this small Bark with you door,
And others of your kind, Ideal Crew! The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues The roses to the Porch which they entwine :
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
Tue fairest, brightest hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die; « BELOVED Vale!» I said, « when I shall con
O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Such strains of rapture as 'the Genius played Will press me down : to think of what is gone
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; Will be an awful thought, if life have one.»
He who stood visible to Mirzab's eye, But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Never before to human sight betrayed. Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears; Lo, in the vale, thc mists of eveniog spread! Deep thought, or awful vision, had I none.
The visionary Arches are not there, By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost,
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas;
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
Of harmony, above all earthly care.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,
PAINTED BY SIR G, H. BEAUMONT, BART.
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
There is a little unpretending Rill
Way, Minstrel, these untuneful murmuricgs-
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?» Notice or name!- It quivers down the hill,
« Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
From its own Country, and forgive the strings.» Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought A simple answer! but even so forth springs, Oftener than Ganges or the Nile, a thought
From the Castalian fountain of the heart, of private recollection sweet and still!
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art
From the submissive necks of guiltless Men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils; And flies their memory fast almost as they,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, all struggle in the toils Thc immortal Spirit of one happy day
Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then
If the poor Harp distempered music yields
lier ooly Pilot the soft breeze the Boat
Aerial Rock-whose solitary brow
See the Vision of Mirzah, in the Spectator.
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
As this low structure—for the tasks of Spring
TO SLEEP. O GENTLE Sleep; do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A Captive never wishing to be free.
A Fly, that up and dowu bimself doth shove
WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN THE
COMPLETE ANGLER.» While flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the name of Walion;-Sacc benign! Whose the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exlıort To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural starine.Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, He found the lougest summer day too short, To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook! Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, The cowslip bank and shady willow-tree, And the fresh incads; where flowcd, from every nook
TO SLEEP. A slock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuriog; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, while sheets of water, and pure sky; By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie Sleepless, and soon the small bird's melodies Must bear, 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 thec, Sleep! by any stealth :
TO THE POET, JOHN DYER, CARD of the Flcece, whose skilful Genius made That Work a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical deliglit Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood
strayed, Those southern Tracts of Cambria, « deep embayed, With green hills fenced, with Ocean's murmur lulled,» Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy bead ungraced, Yel pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, Long as the Shepherd's bleatiog llock shall stray O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!
TO SLEEP. . Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest words that fancy frames, When thankfulness of beart is strong and deep! Dear bosom Cbild 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 praved,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.
See Milton's Sonnel, beginning • A Book was writ of late called Tetracbordon.'.
THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.
A Book came forth of late, called « Peter Bell;»
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell