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Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way,
Thrusts his hands in a wagon, and smells at the hay;
He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,-
If you pass by at morning, you 'll meet with him

The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.

Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid
May one blade of grass spring up over thy head;
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.



IN Bruges town is many a street

Whence busy life hath fled;
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet,

The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade

Flung from a Convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made

To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,

Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.

When silent were both voice and chords,

The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,-for English words

Had fallen upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;

And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,

Clothed with innocuous fire;
But, where we stood, the setting sun

Showed little of his state';
And, if the glory reached the Nun,

”T was through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,

Nor pity idly born,
If even a passing stranger sighs

For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,

Captive, whoe'er thou be!
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,

And opening life to thee?

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Such feeling pressed upon my soul,

A feeling sanctified
By one soft trickling tear that stole

From the Maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,

Borne gaily o’er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss

Of English liberty ?

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TWO Voices are there ; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice ; In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!


ND is this-Yarrow ?- This the Stream

Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully a waking dream?
An image that hath perished !
O that some Minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why ?-a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all thy wanderings,
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted ;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding :
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice-
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers :
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy ;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in ;
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I unwrcathed my own!
'T were no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

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