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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

years : 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 siood on Si. Herleri's

Island, Derwent-Water,

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend
Hast been so bappy, 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 Ilouse

(an Out-louse) on the Island at Grasmeren

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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