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For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
And now I see with eye serene
Al thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and, in truth,
O Nightingale! thou surely art
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
« Myself will to my darling be
She was a Phantom of delight
« She shall be sportive as the Fawn
I saw 5er upon nearer view,
« The floating Clouds their state shall lend
Hither come tlou back straightway,
« Fcar not,» quickly answered Hubert;
Side by side they fought (the Lucies
«Sir!» the Ruffians said to Hubert,
Deep he lies in Jordan flood,» Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. « Take your earnings.»—Oh ! that I Could have seen my Brother die! It was a pang that vexed him then ; And oft returned, again, and yet again.
« The Stars of midnight shall be dear
into her face.
« And vital feelings of delight
Thus Nature spake—The work was done-
of what has been, And never more will be.
A SLUMBER did my spirit scal;
I had no human fears:
The touch of carthly years.
No motion has she now, no force ;
She neither hears por sees,
With rocks and stones and trees !
THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.
When the Brothers reached the gateway,
Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Heirs from ages without record
None could tell if it were night-time,
With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
my last earnest prayer ere we depart.
Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
« On good service we are going
'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace!
Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot;
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she, poor Woman! housed alope. 'T was well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet gay.
Long, and long was he unheard of:
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
O joy for her! whene'er in winter
COODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.
A TRUE STORY.
Ou ! what's the matter? what's the matter?
In March, December, and in July,
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
Now Harry he had long suspected
All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
Then Goody, who had notbing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm« God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!» The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on ber knees did Goody pray, Young Harry heard what she had said: And icy cold lie turned away. He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for llarry Gill! 'That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three. 'T was all in vain, a useless matterAnd blankets were about him pinned ; Yer still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say, 'tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, « Poor Harry Gill is very cold.» A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
I WANDERED lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, Wisen all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside the Lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their beads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft when on my couch I lie lo vacant or in pensive mood, They tlash upon that in ward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three
'T is a note of enchantment; what ails her ? She sees
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
She looks, and her Heart is in heaven : but they fade,
POWER OF MUSIC.
His station is there ;-and he works on the crowd,
What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasle-
The Newsman is stopped, thouglı he stops on the fret,
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ;
He stands, backed by the Wall ;-he abates not bis din;
O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
empioy Cau he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he! Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave and steady joy, The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward
sigo, Mark that Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a l'ower Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour! That Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry and While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than Now, Coaches and Chariots ! roar on like a stream;
before : llere are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream : One after one they take their turn, nor have I ope espied They are deaf to your murmurs--they care not for you, That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. Nor what ye are tlying, nor what ye pursue !
THE HAUNTED TREE.
Those silver clouds collected round the sun
To overshade than multiply his beams Long is it as a Barber's Pole, or Mast of livile Boal,
By soft retlection-grateful to the sky, Some lule Pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense float.
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
attired The Show-man chooses well his place, 't is Leicester's in the whole fulness of its bloom, affords busy Square;
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use And is as bappy in his night, for the heavens are blue was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art, and fair;
That Eastern Sultan, amid tlowers en wrought Calm, though impatient, is the Crowd; each stands ready On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs with the fee,
In languor ; or, by Nature, for repose Impatient till his moment comes—what an insight must of panting Wood-nymph wearied by the chase. it be!
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight
Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves, Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Im- Approach-and, thus invited, crown with rest plement have blame,
The noon-tide hour :-hough truly some there are A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid shame?
This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind Or is it good as others are, and be their
in fault? Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent (Above the general roar of woods and crags) Vault?
Distinctly heard from far-a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? The Hamadriad, pent within, bewailed Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? Some bitter wrong. Nor is it upbelieved, The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost fame,
Haunts this old Trunk ; lamenting deeds of which Doth she betray us when they're seen! or are they but The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind a name?
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;
Is mute,-and, in his silence, would look down,
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless bills,
Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have seem to participate, the whilst they view had,
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, sad ?
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!
Or must we be coostrained to think that these Spectators rude,
WRITTEN IN MARCH, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore
BROTHER'S WATER. prostrate lie? No, do, this cannot be-Men thirst for power and ma- Tue cock is crowing, jesty!
The stream is flowing,