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Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest:
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark? thou wouldst be loth

To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy liver!

With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to th' Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on,
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.

TO A SEXTON.

LET thy wheelbarrow alone-
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bonehouse, bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, sister, friend, and brother,

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform, eight feet square,

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fireside is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride-
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,

Violets in families!

By the heart of man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old grey-beard! art the warden

Of a far superior garden.

Thus, then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there, and Susan here,

Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widow'd years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the loved and lover!

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snowdrops-circlet bright?
How glorious to this orchard ground!
Who loved the little rock and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some love-sick maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd queen, were thus array'd!
Of man mature, or matron sage!
Or old man toying with his age?

I ask'd-'twas whisper'd, the device
To each or all might well belong :
It is the spirit of paradise

That prompts such work, a spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,.
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places, calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion,
O'er the rocks the chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less he loves his haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave,
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never-never does the trouble
Of the wanderer leave my soul.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF
BINNORIE.

SEVEN daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother;
I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle-horn.
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right-
Of your fair household, father knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run and cry, "Nay let us die,
And let us die together."

ལ་ལས་སྐོ་དངཧམ་ཡང་མ་མོ་དངང་ཆེ་ཁག་མ་ལ་འQ@ "22*w© A#*%x/®?

A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

-"Pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find."

By their floating mill,

Which lies dead and still,

Behold yon prisoners three!

The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames;
The platform is small, but there's room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tether'd fast;

To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;
And many a blithe day they have pass'd.

In sight of the spires,

All alive with the fires

Of the sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel,

And their music 's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,-what matter! 'tis theirs ;
And if they had care, it has scatter'd their cares,
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find;

I

Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the Spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing ;

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!

THE KITTEN, AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

THAT way look, my infant, lo!
What a a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Wither'd leaves-one-two-and three

From the lofty elder-tree!

Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink,
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaí convey'd
Sylph or fairy hither tending,-
To his lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In this wavering parachute.

-But the kitten how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow

Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop; and there are none-
What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again :

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjuror;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics play'd in the eye

Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands with shout and stare,

What would little Tabby care

For the plaudits of the crowd?

Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

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