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Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

There do I find a never-failing store

Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter wherein right voluble I am :

Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;

And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby

Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day my little Boat

Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.

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Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,
The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,

Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!

Giving to thee Sound for Sound.

Whence the Voice? from air or earth?

This the Cuckoo cannot tell;

But a startling sound had birth,

As the Bird must know full well;

Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent;

Like her ordinary cry,

Like-but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal Life?

Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!

Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,

Voices of two different Natures?

Have not We too? Yes we have

Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence?

Such within ourselves we hear
Oft-times, ours though sent from far;

Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

For of God, of God they are!

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,

(AN AGRICULTURIST.)

Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands,
And shap❜d these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in
my hands;

I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;
Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The toiling many and the resting few;

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