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11 ApPy the feeling from the bosom thrown
In perfect shape whose beauty Time shall spare
Though a breath made it, like a bubble blown
For summer pastime into wanton air;
Happy the thought best likened to a stone
Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care,
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare,
Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone
That tempted first to gather it. O chief
Of Friends! such feelings if I bere sept,
Such thoughts, with others mixed less fortunate ;
Then smile into my heart a fond belief
That Thou, if not with partial joy elate,
Receiv'st the gift for more than mild content!

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;
And Hermits are contented with their cells;
And Students with their pensive citadels :
Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom,
Sie blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the bour in foxglove bells :
In truth, tbe prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'I was pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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.
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

– The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the Abode ;- forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining wbile they look;
Intruders who would tear from Nature's book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the Home must be if it were thine,

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,
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ?
On which it should be touched would mell, and melt
away.

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
Those
many
records of

my
childish years,

Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Remembrance of myself and of my peers

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;
I stood of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small. From which I have been lifted on the breeze
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;

Of harmony, above all earthly care.
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

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PAINTED BY SIR G, H. BEAUMONT, BART.

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled :
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which « did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,»
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muscs glorified.
Yet round our sca-girt shore they rise in crowds :
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is fairer far : He shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon Cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that Band of Travellers on their way,
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And shewed the Dark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering Bay.
Soul-soothing Art! wliich Morning, Noou-tide, Even
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

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There is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far thau aught

Way, Minstrel, these untuneful murmuricgs-
That ever among Men or Naiads souchat

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
Months perish with their moons ; year treads on ycar; Divine of words quickening insensate Things,
But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say

From the submissive necks of guiltless Men
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,

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
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

If the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native Fields ?

1

lier ooly Pilot the soft breeze the Boat
Lingers, But Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we tloat
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the Heavens smile, and Icave us free lo glide,
Happy Associates brcathing air remote
From trivial carcs. But, Fancy and the Muse,

Aerial Rock-whose solitary brow
From this low threshold daily meets my sight,
When I step forth to hail the morning light;
Or quit the stars with liugering farewell-how
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow?
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?
Dy planting on thy naked lead the crest

See the Vision of Mirzah, in the Spectator.

Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
of ruia shall not touch. Innocent scheme !
That doth presume no more than to supply
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.
Rise, then, ye votive Towers, and catch a gleam
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die !

As this low structure—for the tasks of Spring
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-cleaming Nest,--a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the Mother's softest plumes allow :
1 yaze—and almost wish to lay aside
Humanity, wcak slave of cumbrous pride!

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.

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pen,

A Fly, that up and dowu bimself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no ;
Pence am I cross and peevislı as a child :
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

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 :
So do pot let me wear (0-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ?
Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

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;»
Not negligent the style; -the matter?-good
As aught that song records of Robin Hood;
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;
But some (who brook these hacknied themes full well,
Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.
Heed not, wild Rover once through beath and glen,
Who mad'st at length the better lite thy choice,

Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald Iloored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing

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