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And wait his proud disposal, let him prove,
E'en in this delegated function, prove,

A deep humility which fears to tread

Where the all-perfect, and unquestion'd God
Hath wrought strange imperfection-perhaps to bend,
And by the influence of an holy sadness,

To tame the o'erweening soul! not give a cause
For riotous Dominion, and for Power
Sweeping with mad career from off this world
Its fair inhabitants !

My friend, I knew

A man who liv'd in solitude: a dell

A mossy dell, green, woody, hung around
With various forest growth, was his abode.
And in the forest many a gleaming plot
Of tenderest grass, its island circlet spread!
This man did rear a hut, and lived and died
In that lone dell! He had no friend on earth,
Nor wanted one-For much he lov'd his God,
And much those works which e'en the lonely man
May taste abundantly! And he did think

So oft on life's great Author, that at last
He worshipp'd him in all things, and believ'd
His poorest creatures holy, and could see

"Religious meanings in the forms of nature,"
Dreaming he saw e'en in the passing bird,
The crawling worm, or serpent on the grass,
An emanation of his Maker-so

That a new presence stung him into thought
And made him kneel and weep !

Well! this poor man
Liv'd on the scanty fruits this little dell
Afforded. Never did a dying writhe,
Or dying gasp, war with his sense of good.
At last be died, and such had been his life
That when he yielded up his animal frame
It only seem'd as if he went to sleep
More quietly than ever!



I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was written by EDMUND SPENSER, and found by an Angler, buried in a fishing box

"Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar,

"Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore.”

But a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion, that it resembles SPENSER's minor Poems as nearly as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. This Poem must be read in recitative, in the same manner as the gloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar.


Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree,
There was of Swine a large company.
They were making a rude repast,
Grunting as they crunch'd the mast.

Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high-
One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy,

Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly :

He belong'd, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY! Blacker was he than blackest jet;

Flew low in the rain; his feathers were wet.
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait,
By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the Raven go?

He went high and low,

Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go!
Many Autumns, many Springs,
Travell'd he with wandering wings;
Many Summers, many Winters-

I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he return'd, and with him a she;
And the acorn was grown a large oak-tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were jolly enow.
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,
His brow like a pent-house hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, and he nothing spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At last he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
His young ones were kill'd, for they could not depart,

And his wife she did die of a broken heart!

The branches from off it the Woodman did sever

And they floated it down on the course of the river : They saw'd it to planks, and its rind they did strip,


And with this tree and others they built up a ship.
The ship it was launch'd; but in sight of the land,
A tempest arose which no ship could withstand.
It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast
The auld Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the blast.
He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls!
They be sunk! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls.
The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet
They had taken his all, and REVENGE WAS SWEET.

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