FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL. DEAR native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest A lingering light he fondly throws WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. CALM is all nature as a resting wheel. Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. "T is a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, |