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At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three


Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.


For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water,

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend

Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what


Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love
Make the heart sick, then wilt thou reverence

This quiet spot.— -St. Herbert hither came,
And here, for many seasons, from the world
Removed, and the affections of the world,.
He dwelt in solitude.-But he had left

A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved
As his own soul. And, when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix

While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore

Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced

Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he would pray that both Might die in the same moment.

Nor in vain

So prayed he:-as our Chronicles report,

Though here the Hermit numbered his last days,

Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend,

Those holy Men both died in the same hour.


Written with a pencil upon a stone in the wall of the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To somewhat of a closer fellowship.

With the ideal grace.

Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help

From the great City; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts

Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.
It is a homely Pile, yet to these walls

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