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With weary pace is drawing nigh;
He sees the Ass—and nothing living
Had ever such a fit of joy
As hath this little orphan Boy,
For he has no misgiving !

Forth to the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs
In loving words he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,
He kisses him a thousand times !

This Peter sees, while in the shade
He stood beside the cottage door;
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
“Oh! God, I can endure no more !"

--Here ends my Tale: for in a trice Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; Peter went forth with him straightway; And with due care, ere break of day, Together they brought back the Corse.

And many years did this poor Ass,
Whom once it was my luck to see
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,
Help by his labor to maintain
The Widow and her family.

And Peter Bell, who till that night Had been the wildest of his clan, Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, And, after ten months' melancholy, Became a good and honest man.

SONNET.

OCTOBER, 1803.

ONE might believe that natural miseries

Had blasted France, and made of it a land Unfit for men ; and that in one great band Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. But 't is a chosen soil, where sun and breeze Shed gentle favors : rural works are there, And ordinary business without care; Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please ! How piteous then that there should be such dearth Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite To work against themselves such fell despite : Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth, Impatient to put out the only light Of Liberty that yèt remains on earth.

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER.

« The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it

with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other
his own verses-
“Is there a man whose judgment clear,'" &c

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.

'MID

ID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns ;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

With sorrow true ;
And more would grieve, but that it turns

Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill

Must ye display ;
If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit

ye

share,
Like him can speed
The social hour--of tenfold care

There will be need.

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For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,—and fool and rake

Your steps pursue ;
And of your Father's name will make

A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire

With service meet ;
There seek the genius of your Sire,

His spirit greet!

Or where, 'mid “lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ;
Or wiped his honorable brows

Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

Upturned the soil ;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given;
Nor deem that “ light which leads astray,

Is light from Heaven.”
Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,

And such revere;
But be admonished by his

And think, and fear!

grave,

LINES Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of

Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beau.

tiful prospect. NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree

stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs ?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulso saved from vacancy.

Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy

sod
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember.—He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,

And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favored Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, -against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore le at once
With indignation turned himself away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.-Stranger ! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper :
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up bis head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,-how lovely 't is
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labors of benevolence,
The world, and human life, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel : and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,—this seat his only monument.

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