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Here pause the poet claims at least this praise

The French Army in Russia

On the same Occasion

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze

The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim

241

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright

242

Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Disinterment of the

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung!

247

Ode. The Morning of the Day appointed for a General

Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816

INSCRIPTIONS.

In the Grounds of Coleorton, the seat of Sir George Beau-

mont, Bart., Leicestershire

In a Garden of the Same

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265

275

Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and

in his name, for an Urn, placed by him at the termina-

tion of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same Grounds

For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton

Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the

House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere

Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the side of the

Mountain of Black Comb

-

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a

heap lying near a Deserted Quarry, upon one of the

Islands at Rydal

Intended for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount

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278

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The massy Ways, carried across these heights

284

Inscriptions supposed to be Found in and near a Hermit's Cell

285

For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's

Lines Written in the Album of the Countess of Lonsdale

293

THE EGYPTIAN MAID; or, the Romance of the Water

DEDICATION.

ΤΟ

HAPPY the feeling from the bosom thrown

In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall spare
Though a breath made it) like a bubble blown
For summer pastime into wanton air;

Happy the thought best likened to a stone

Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care,
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare,

Which for the loss of that morst gleam atone
That tempted first to gather it. That here,
O chief of Friends! such feelings I present,
To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate,
Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear,
That thou, if not with partial joy elate,

Wilt smile upon this gift with more than mild content!

1.

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.