But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and, lo! recall'd
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning

In such a quiet and surrounded nook,

This burst of prospect, here the shadowy Main,
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy Fields, seems like society-
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;

And close behind them, hidden from my view,

Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe

And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light

And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend,

Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!

And grateful, that by nature's quietness

And solitary musings, all my heart

Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge

Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

Nether Stowey,

April 28th, 1798.

AN Ox, long fed with musty hay,
And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay

At once with Sun and rain.

II.

The grass was fine, the Sun was bright:

With truth I may aver it;

The Ox was glad, as well he might, Thought a green meadow no bad sight, And frisked, to shew his huge delight, ́ Much like a beast of spirit.

III.

Stop, Neighbours! stop! why these alarms?

The Ox is only glad—

But still they pour from cots and farms—
Halloo! the parish is up in arms,

(A hoaxing-hunt has always charms)
Halloo! the Ox is mad.

IV.

The frighted beast scamper'd about;
Plunge! through the hedge he drove-

The mob pursue with hideous rout,
A bull-dog fastens on his snout;

He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out;

He's mad! he's mad, by Jove!

V.

ས

"Stop, Neighbours, stop!" aloud did call

A sage of sober hue.

But all, at once, on him they fall,

And women squeak and children squall,

"What! would you have him toss us all?

"And damme! who are you?"

VI.

Oh! hapless sage, his ears they stun,
And curse him o'er and o'er-

"You bloody-minded dog! cries one,

"To slit your windpipe were good fun,-
"'Od blast you for an *impious son

"Of a presbyterian w—re.”

VII.

"You'd have him gore the parish-priest,

"And run against the altar

"You fiend!" The sage his warnings ceas'd,

And north and south, and west and east,

Halloo! they follow the poor beast,

Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob and Walter.

VIII.

Old Lewis, ('twas his evil day)
Stood trembling in his shoes:
The Ox was his-what could he say?
His legs were stiffened with dismay,

The Ox ran o'er him mid the fray,

And gave him his death's bruise.

* One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the sermons in the pulpit and the proclamations in the

-corners.