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"The lovely cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!"

BROOK! whose society the poet seeks
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;

And whom the curious painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If I some type of thee did wish to view,
Thee,-and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs;
It seems the eternal soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestow'd on thee a better good-
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.

ADMONITION,

INTENDED MORE PARTICULARLY FOR THE PERUSAL OF THOSE WHO MAY HAVE HAPPENED TO BE ENAMOURED OF SOME BEAUTIFUL PLACE OF RETREAT IN THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES.

YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

-The lovely cottage in the guardian nook

Hath stirr'd thee deeply: with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet not the abode-O do not sigh,

As many do, repining while they look;
Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's book

This olissful leaf with harsh impiety.

Think what the home would be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants! Roof, window, door,
The very flowers, are sacred to the poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine:

Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!

gone

"BELOVED Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down; to think of what is
Will be an awful thought, if life have one.
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears;
Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd,
To see the trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the brooks so narrow, fields so small,
A juggler's balls old Time about him toss'd;
I look'd, I stared, I smiled, I laugh'd; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud-
Nor view of who might sit thereon allow'd;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.'
I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seem'd to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely beauty in a summer grave ! *

SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind
I wish'd to share the transport-Oh, with whom
But thee, long buried in the silent tomb!
That spot which no vicissitude can find.
Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind-
But how could I forget thee?-Through what powar,
Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and freo;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,

Thy nature therefore is not less divine:

Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom" all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

• Prophetic of the death of the Princess Charlotte.

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND, IN THE VALI
OF GRASMERE.

WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place,
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Even for such omen would the bride display
No mirthful gladness. Serious is her face,

Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way

Will thank you. Faultless does the maid appear,
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the wife
To her indulgent lord become more dear.

ON APPROACHING HOME AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803.
FLY, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Glad tidings!-spread them over field and height;
But chiefly let one cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic with unruly might,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight

Of near approaching good that shall not fail ;~
And from that infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child,
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,

While we have wander'd over wood and wild,
Smile on his mother now with bolder cheer.

FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise, rise; the gales of youth shall bear

Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,

Yet a high guerdon waits on minds that dare,

If aught be in them of immortal seed,

And reason govern that audacious flight

Which heav'nward they direct. Then droop not thou,
Erroneously renewing a sad vow

In the low dell 'mid Roslin's fading grove:

A cheerful life is what the muses love,

A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

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