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Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.

IX.

I look for ghosts ; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.

X.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

XI.

Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend !

LINES,

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.

How richly glows the water's breast

Before us tinged with evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent course pursues !
And see how dark the backward stream !
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure ;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colors shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.

-And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

1789.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.
Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.'—EUSEBIUS.

I HAVE a boy of five years old ;

His face is fair and fresh to see ;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain ;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green

carth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade.

Birds warbled round me-and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm ;
Kilve, thought I, was a favored place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.

“ Now tell me,

had
you

rather be,” I said, and took him by the arm, “ On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm ?”

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, “ At Kilve I'd rather be,
Than here at Liswyn farm.”

“Now, little Edward, say why so :
My little Edward, tell me why ?”-
“ I cannot tell, I do not know.”.
Why, this is strange," said I;

“For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm :
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.”

At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
“Why, Edward, tell me why ?”

His head he raised—there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
“At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reason why.”

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

1798.

THE NORMAN BOY.

HIGH on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted

Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man

his own,

From home and company remote and every playful

joy, Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged

Norman boy.

Him never saw I, nor the spot, but from an English

Dame, Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice

came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that se

questered child Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the

dreary Wild.

His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics

sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the

fall of more,

Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at

their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of

anxious heed.

There was he, where of branches rent and withered

and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a

but had made.

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