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THE RECLUSE.

A FOUNTAIN issuing into light,
Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon an humbler course it took,
And glid away a nameless brook.

Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,

Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd, Birds midst the alder-branches sang,

Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd; The weary there lay down to rest, And there the halcyon built her nest.

'Twas beautiful, to stand and watch

The fountain's crystal turn to gems,

And from the sky such colours catch,
As if 'twere raining diadems;

Yet all was cold and curious art,

That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart.

Dearer to me the little stream,

Whose unimprison'd waters run, Wild as the changes of a dream,

By rock and glen, through shade and sun;

Its lovely links had power to bind

In welcome chains my wandering mind.

So thought I, when I saw the face
By happy portraiture reveal'd,
Of one, adorn'd with every grace,

-Her name and date from me conceal'd,

But not her story ;—she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.

1829.

She cast her glory round a court,
And frolick'd in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport,
Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing;
But thence, when love had touch'd her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.

From din, and pageantry, and strife,

Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life,

Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,

No fountain scattering diamond showers,
But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.

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Once born, the moment dies not,
"Tis an immortal thing;

While all is change beneath the sky,

Fix'd like the sun, as learned sages prove,

Though from our moving world he seems to move,
"Tis time stands still, and we that fly.

There is no past; from nature's birth,
Days, months, years, ages, till the end
Of these revolving heavens and earth,
All to one centre tend;

And, having reach'd it late or soon,
Converge, as in a lens, the rays,

Caught from the fountain-light of noon,
Blend in a point that blinds the gaze:
-What has been is, what is shall last;
The present is the focus of the past;
The future, perishing as it arrives,
Becomes the present, and itself survives.

Time is not progress, but amount;
One vast accumulating store,
Laid up, not lost ;-we do not count
Years gone but added to the score

Of wealth untold, to clime nor class confined,
Riches to generations lent,

For ever spending, never spent,

Th' august inheritance of all mankind.
Of this, from Adam to his latest heir,
All in due turn their portion share,
Which, as they husband or abuse,
Their souls they win or lose.

Though history, on her faded scrolls,

Fragments of facts, and wrecks of names enrols, Time's indefatigable fingers write

Men's meanest actions on their souls,

In lines which not himself can blot :

These the last day shall bring to light,

Though through long centuries forgot,

When hearts and sepulchres are bared to sight.

Then, having fill'd his measure up,

Amidst his own assembled progeny,

(All that have been, that are, or yet may be,)

Before the great white throne,

To Him who sits thereon,

Time shall present th' amalgamating cup,

In which, as in a crucible,

He hid the moments as they fell,

More precious than Golconda's gems,
Or stars in angels' diadems,

1833.

Though to our eyes they seem'd to pass
Like sands through his symbolic glass:
But now, the process done,

Of millions multiplied by millions, none
Shall there be wanting,-while by change
Ineffable and strange,

All shall appear at once, all shall appear as one.

Ah! then shall each of Adam's race,

In that concenter'd instant, trace,

Upon the tablet of his mind,

His whole existence in a thought combined,
Thenceforth to part no more, but be
Impictured on his memory;

-As in the image-chamber of the eye,
Seen at a glance, in clear perspective, lie
Myriads of forms of ocean, earth, and sky.

Then shall be shown, that but in name
Time and eternity were both the same;
A point which life nor death could sever,
A moment standing still for ever.

TO A FRIEND,

WITH A COPY OF THE FOREGOING LUCUBRATION.

MAY she for whom these lines are penn'd,
By using well, make time her friend;
Then, whether he stands still or flies,
Whether the moment lives or dies,
She need not care,-for time will be
Her friend to all eternity.

THE RETREAT.

Written on finding a copy of verses in a small edifice so named, at Raithby, in Lincolnshire, the seat of R. C. Brackenbury, to whom the author made a visit in the autumn of 1815, after a severe illness.

A STRANGER sat down in the lonely retreat ;—
Though kindness had welcomed him there,
Yet weary with travel, and fainting with heat,
His bosom was sadden'd with care:
That sinking of spirit they only can know,
Whose joys are all chasten'd with fears;
Whose waters of comfort, though deeply they flow,
Still wind through the valley of tears.

What ails thee, O stranger! but open thine eye,
A paradise bursts on thy view;

The sun in full glory is marching on high
Through cloudless and infinite blue:

The woods, in their wildest luxuriance display'd,

Are stretching their coverts of green,

While bright from the depth of their innermost shade,

Yon mirror of waters is seen.

There richly reflected, the mansion, the lawn,
The banks and the foliage appear,

By nature's own pencil enchantingly drawn,
—A landscape enshrined in a sphere;
While the fish in their element sport to and fro,
Quick glancing or gliding at ease,

The birds seem to fly in a concave below,
Through a vista of down-growing trees.

The current, unrippled by volatile airs,
Now glitters, now darkens along,
And yonder o'erflowing, incessantly bears
Symphonious accordance to song:

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