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The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine! And that Wallnut tree
Was richly ting'd; and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient Ivy which usurps

Those fronting elms, and now with blackest mass
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue

Thro' the late Twilight and tho' now the Bat


Wheels silent by, and not a Swallow twitters,

Yet still the solitary humble Bee,

Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure,
No scene so narrow but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to love and beauty! And sometimes
'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted CHARLES! when the last Rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in the light)
Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory
While thou stood'st gazing; or when all was still

*Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted CHARLES! to whom No sound is dissonant, which tells of Life.


*Flew creeking.-Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to observe that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the Savannah Crane. "When these birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; and even when at a considerable distance, or high above us, we plainly hear the quill feathers, their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea.



"Much on my early youth I love to dwell," When by my father's side, a stripling boy, I paced with steps unequal; fain to tell

Of some new-practis'd game, some new-bought toy: How oft with bliss, which latter days deny,

My prattling tongue its story would repeat !

If chance he smil'd,-and he would smile, how high With blameless pride my filial heart would beat ? O for those hours of ecstacy again

Which thus on life's sweet prime their lustre shed! The radiant season I invite in vain

With second beam to gild my orphan head
It comes not twice. Nor boots it to repine;
I with his ashes soon may mingle mine.


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Written at MATLOCK.

Matlock, as through thy cliff-sprung woods I rove
(Still pausing, while I muse on youth's brief day;
How fast his little raptures fleet away ;

How oft his heart, that seat of faithful love,
Is doom'd to love in vain ;) my anguish'd mind
Sighs to behold in spiral eddies round
Thy foliage, scatter'd by the wild North-wind,
With faded verdure strew the sallow ground.
But 'tis the season's wreck: Not unforeseen,
The deepening tempest howls in Autumn's ear:
Me the storm blasted, ere I learn'd to fear
Its fatal rage, while yet my leaf was green :
Scarce had my May begun her soft career,
When stern December clos'd the hasty year.


While as I wander thro' thy time-worn walls
And tread in pensive mood the hallow'd ground
Where now is heard no more the pious sound,
The scene fair Rosamunda's fate recalls.
Methinks I see the haughty jealous Queen

With horrid smile prepare the poison'd bowl,
With anxious step the fatal thread unroll
And tread with care the mazy path unseen;

Now from the shade a murder'd form arise
Whom mitred bigotry a tomb denies ;
Yet when the day shall come to judge the just
May ye be summon'd to the realms above
With her whose only crime on earth was love,
Ye rude disturbers of her mould'ring dust!

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