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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, his head Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook een on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.
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.
• The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen see!
'T is in the leaves, a little sun,
• A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too;
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory, gay and bright,
And then they argued of those rays,
Says this, “ they're mostly green;” says that, • They're amber-like to me."
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, And the thumping in his breast.
• A Mother too !" these self-same words Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one That hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dream Had had time to depart,
• O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd) I have torn out her heart.”
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow ! and To-morrow ; and To-morrow 1–
DEJ ECTION; An olde.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
I. WELL | If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this AFolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimined and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 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, Alight startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
My genial spirits fail,
And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
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.
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!
W. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud— We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.
Wi. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth : Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural Man— This was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.
1 turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn," or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
* Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have beard it at night, and in a mountainous country.
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
VIII. "T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 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 DEVONSHIRE,
on the TWENTY-Fouhth STANZA in her a pass AGE overt Mount Gothand. *
And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild!
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child,
Splendoun's fondly foster'd child!
Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
You were a Mother! That most holy name,
O beautiful! O Nature's child !
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
TRANQuilliry' thou better name Than all the family of Fame! Thou ne'er will leave my riper age To low intrigue, or factious rage; For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar.
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, power divine, Thy spirit rests! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope And dire Remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.
lout me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustom'd mead; And in the sultry summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat; And when the gust of Autumn crowds And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought cans raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon.
The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole! And while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, Aloof with hermit-eye I scan The present works of present man— A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE Authott.
composed in 1796.
A Mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,
Such a green mountain't were most sweet to climb, E’en while the bosom ached with loneliness— How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless
The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!
O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,_ Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now to unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; 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 pine 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 unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow’d by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth it were a lot divine To cleat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedev'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic hliss Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss!
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!
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
While my young check retains its healthful hues,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE
Who ABANDoNed himself to AN INdoleNT AND CAUseless Melancholy.
Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,
SONNET TO the Rivett Otter.
DeAn native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West'
SONNET. composed on A Jourt.NEY HomewARD ; the AUTHOR HAv ING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE Birlth of
A son, sepTEMBER 20, 1796.
Orr o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll which makes the present (while the flash doth last)