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For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

Al thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
L'avisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and ereci, with milk-white clusters hung;'
A virgin scene!- A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
Is joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Poluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet,-or beneath the trees I sate
Among the tlowers, and with the flowers I played ;
A temper, known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any humau eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever, -and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a lock of sheep,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
to that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with

crash
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of bazels, and the green

and

mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being : and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exalting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.-
Theo, dearest Maiden! move along these shades
In yenileness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

O Nightingale! thou surely art
A Creature of a fiery heart:-
These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous barmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had lielped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent Night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful Groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the Song-the Song for me!

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, « A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

« Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse : and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

She was a Phantom of delight
When first sbe gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To hauni, to starte, and way-lay.

« She shall be sportive as the Fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things,

I saw 5er upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman 100!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;

« The floating Clouds their state shall lend
To her; for ber the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

Hither come tlou back straightway,
Flubert, if alive that day;
Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee '»

« Fcar not,» quickly answered Hubert;
« As I am thy Father's son,
What thou askest, noble Brother,
With God's favour shall be done.»
So were both right well content:
From the Castle forth they went.
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their

way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come—the thought-
By what evil spirit brought ?
Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
lis Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?

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«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
To her; and she shall Ican hier ear
In many a secret place
Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall
pass

into her face.

« And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy Dell.»

Thus Nature spake—The work was done-
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory

of what has been, And never more will be.

A SLUMBER did my spirit scal;

I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of carthly years.

No motion has she now, no force ;

She neither hears por sees,
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course

With rocks and stones and trees !

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

When the Brothers reached the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance
To the llorn which there was hanging ;
Horn of the inheritance,
Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair,

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
He has nothing now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

Heirs from ages without record
Had the House of Lucie born,
Who of right had claimed the Lordship
By the proof upon the lord :
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the Horn,-it owned his power;
He was acknowledged : and the blast,
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread ;
And brighit the Lady is who shares luis bed.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to llubert thus said he,
«What I speak this Born shall witness
For thy better memory.
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart,
As

my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.

« On good service we are going
Life to risk by sea and laud,
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,

'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown
lle is helpless and alone :
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word !
And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot;
And if power to speak lie had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living Man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two

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:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a Brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven :
Then in a Convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met hier,
'T was a bard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wiok.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from Murderers' hands,
And from Payan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons be had, saw Sons of theirs :
And through ages, Heirs of Heirs,
A loog posterity renowned,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a Justy splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
Avd made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left hier bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill,

COODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

Ou ! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chalter, challer, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duftle grey, and tlannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
T is all the same with llarry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
"T is all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the inoon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he ?
His checks were red as ruddy clover ;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor ;
lui fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Miglt see how poor a but she had.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from bis warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
lle watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand :
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise--he's all awake-
Again ?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps—'T is Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.
Right clad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull :
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her

full.
When with ber load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
lle started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, «I've caught you then at last!»

apron

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Ou a hill's porthera side slie dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the bawiboros lean
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

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.

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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

years :
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'T is a note of enchantment; what ails her ? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Dright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only Dwelling on carth that she loves.

She looks, and her Heart is in heaven : but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
| The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

POWER OF MUSIC.
An Orpheus ! an Orpheus!-yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old ;-
Near the stately Pantheon you 'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

His station is there ;-and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud ;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim-
Was aught ever heard like his Fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So be, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasle-
What matter! he 's caught-and his time runs to

waste

The Newsman is stopped, thouglı he stops on the fret,
And the half. breathless Lamplighter-he's in the net!

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ;
The Lass with her barrow wheels bither her store ;-
If a Thief could be bere he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees!

He stands, backed by the Wall ;-he abates not bis din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and

there!
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band:
I am glad for him, blind as he is !--all the while
If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile.

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.

pore

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.

TO

STAR-GAZERS.
Wunt crowd is this ? what have we here! we must not His mid-day warmth abate not, seeining less

Those silver clouds collected round the sun
pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:

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
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which

now,

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

eyes

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;
Not even a zephyr stirs ;- the obnoxious Tree

Is mute,-and, in his silence, would look down,
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her on thy reclining form with more delight

O lovely Wanderer of the trackless bills,
wrong?

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,

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