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DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, th' unworthy lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease

Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
Beggar'd and outraged! Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed
For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

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TO THE POET JOHN DYER.

BARD of the fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright;
Nor hallow'd less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood stray'd,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, ""
deep embay'd,

By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lull'd;"
Though hasty fame hath many a chaplet cull'd
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,

Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay

Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray

O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.

TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience-no;
Hence I am cross and peevish as a child:
And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled!

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!.

TO SLEEP.

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FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names
The very sweetest words that fancy frames
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear bosom child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; balm that tames
All anguish; saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone-
I, surely not a man ungently made-

Call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is cross'd?
Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it show'd;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,

Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy

Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
"Her tackling rich, and of apparel high."

This ship was naught to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover's look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer :

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she,-and due north her journey took.

TO THE RIVER DUDDON.

O MOUNTAIN stream! the shepherd and his cot
Are privileged inmates of deep solitude:
Nor would the nicest anchorite exclude
A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spct
Of stationary sunshine: thou hast view'd
These only, Duddon ! with their paths renew'd
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
Thee hath some awful spirit impell'd to leave,
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,
Though simple thy companions were and few;
And through this wilderness a passage cleave,
Attended but by thy own voice, save when
The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetray'd;

For if of our affections none find grace

In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

FROM THE SAME.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind.
That I may have the power to sing of Thes,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.

FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

Heaven-born, the soul a heav'nward course must hold; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek

(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal form, the universal mould..

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

TO THE LADY BEAUMONT.

LADY! the songs of spring were in the grove
While I was framing beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove
The dream, to time and Nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,

A labyrinth, lady, which your feet shall rove,
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness, you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather bo
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.

CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky,
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hush'd, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh, leave me to myself! nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1809.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass

A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

by

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

ELION and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enroll'd;
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring hill, which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial muses glorified.

Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:

What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,

Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty

Our British hill is fairer far; he shrouds

His double-fronted head in higher clouds,

And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

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