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'T is sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'T is sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, liis head
Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook een on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens.
And he had pass'd a restless night,
And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side,
And talk'd as 't were by stealth.
will not go
« The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
See, dearest Ellen! sce! 'T is in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your e'e;
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which beller far were mute.
But rimined and circled by a silver thread)
The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might starte this dull pain, and make it move and live!
A stilled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or betycen, Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellenıly fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are!
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in bis mind; When he waked up, and stared like one
That liath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the drcam
Had had time to depart, O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd) I have torn out her heart,
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with burst
Into ungentle laughter ;
And never she smiled after.
And what can these avail
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!
IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Than that inanimate cold world allowed
Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Thou mighty Poel, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Enveloping the Earth
What tellist thou now about? And from the soul itself must there be sent
'T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, A sweet and potent voice, of its own birib,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds-Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be!
groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is overWhat, and wherein it doth exist,
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
A tale of less affright,
And temper'd with delight,
"T is of a little child Life, and Life's Effuence, Cloud at once and Shower, Upon a lonesome wild, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud
hear. Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud
'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colours a suffusion from that light.
may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough,
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice :
To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF For not to think of what I needs must feel,
DEVONSHIRE, But to be still and patient, all I can ;
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER « PASSAGE
OVER MOUNT GOTHARD.
And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild !
Where Tall directed the avenging Dart, And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Cbild,
Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's beart.
SPLENDOUR's fondly foster'd child !
And did you hail the Platform wild, 1 turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Where once the Austrian fell Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Beneath the shaft of Tell? Of agony by torture lengthen’d out
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?
From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man ;
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!
Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, | Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart: lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who bave beard it at night, and in a mountainous
With many a bright obtrusive form of art, country.
Detain'd your eye from nature : stately vests,
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
To thee I gave my early youth,
There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
All living faculties of bliss;
And bending low, with godlike kiss
Breathed in a more celestial life; But boasts not many a fair compeer,
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
Yet these delight to celebrate
Tales of rustic happiness-
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The doom of Ignorance and Penury!
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in
pomp and pleasure ! Where learnt you that heroic measure?
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
And dire Remembrance interlope,
But me thy gentle hand will lead
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
The feeling heart, the searching soul,
The present works of present man-
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE
You were a Mother! That most holy name,
Which Heaven and Nature bless, I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose Infants owe them less
Its gaudy Parent Fly.
The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Without the Mother's bitter groans :
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
infant's Soul! The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides
His chariot-planet round the goal of day, All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,
A moment lurn'd his awful face away;
New influences in your being rose,
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
COMPOSED IN 1796.
But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And ’mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, ly those still sounds beguiled, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy clift above, With melancholy blcat of anxious love,
Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb:
Such a green mountain't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless
The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow : the clad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound !
LINES TO W. L. ESQ.
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L---! methinks, I would not often hear
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish hy,
Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died !
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE
O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark
Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag
Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pinc its old romantic limbs,
Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;
And haply, bason'd in some unsuon'd cleft,
Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,
WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND
Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear! To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bilten Infant hear
Moan haply in a dying Mother's car: Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves strew'd, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart
Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!
O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's common-weal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.
SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.
Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour
To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,
Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!
Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West !
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs :
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
And from the stirring world up-lifted high
And oft the melancholy theme supply),
Pours all its bealthful green dess on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,
As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Honour'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!
COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.
1 OFT o'er my brain docs that strange fancy roll
Which makes the prescut (while the flash doth last)