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A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake

That knew not of his wants.

I will not say

What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed

To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
-Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

As e'er by Mariner was given to Bay

Or Foreland on a new-discovered coast,

And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.


To M. H.

Our walk was far among the antient trees;
There was no road, nor any wood-man's path;
But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf
Beneath the branches of itself had made

A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn,

And a small bed of water in the woods.

All round this pool both flocks and herds might


On its firm margin, even as from a Well,

Or some Stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand

Had shaped for their refreshment ;

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nor did sun

Or wind from any quarter ever come,
But as a blessing, to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field;
The spot was made by Nature for herself:
The travellers know it not, and 't will remain
Unknown to them: but it is beautiful;

And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it that in his death hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook
With all its beeches we have named for You.


Written when sailing in a Boat


How rich the wave, in front, imprest
With evening twilight's summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The Boat her silent course pursues !

And see how dark the backward stream!

A little moment past, so smiling!

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other Loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
-And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come tomorrow?

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