¡¶Lyrical Ballads: With a Few Other Poems¡·


 ADVERTISEMENT.

    It is teristic of Poetry t its materials are tobe found in every subject  t is to be soug in tings of Critics,but in ts themselves.

    ty of to be considered as experiments.tten co ascertain ion in ty is adapted totic pleasure. Readers accustomed to ters, if t in readingto its conclusion, rugglerangeness and aukry, and o enquire by esy ttempts can be permitted to assume t title. It is desirable tsuc suffer tary ry, a ed meaning, to stand in ti?cation; but t, ains a natural delineation of ers, and s; and if to t t to be pleased in spiteof t most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our oablishedcodes of decision.

    Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of tyle in  must be expected t many lines andp exactly suit taste. It   fault of times descended too lo many of oo familiar, and not of suf?cient dignity. It is appre t ters, and imes ing manners andpassions, ts of to make.

    An accurate taste in poetry, and in all ts, Sir Josalent, inued intercourse  modelsof composition. tioned not oprevent t inexperienced reader from judging for merely to temper to suggest t if poetrybe a subject on o maybe erroneous, and t in many cases it necessarily will be so.

    tale of Goody Blake and icated fact  may be proper to say t te inventions of ts ion or t of  supposed to be spoken in ter of tor ly sself in tory. t Marinere ten in imitation of tyle_, as of ts; but ions, t ted in it elligible for t centuries. titledExpostulation and Reply, and t ofconversation  unreasonably attacomodern books of moral philosophy.

 CONTENTS.

    t Marinere

    ter-Motale

    Lines left upon a Seat in a Yeree e

    tingale, a Conversational Poem

    t

    Goody Blake and harry Gill

    Lines ten at a small distance from my

    by my little Boy to to whey are addressed

    Simon Lee, tsman

    Anecdote for Fathers

    e are seven

    Lines ten in early spring

    thorn

    t of the Flock

    the Dungeon

    ther

    t Boy

    Lines ten near Ric Evening

    Expostulation and Reply

    tables turned; an Evening Scene, on t

    Old Man travelling

    t of a forsaken Indian oman

    t

    Lines ten a feintern Abbey

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-1

    IN SEVEN PARtS.

    ARGUMENt.

    <span style="color:Gray">orms to try too tropical Latitude of t Paci?c Ocean; and of tranget befell; and in  Marinere came back tory.

    I.

    It is an ancyent Marinere,

    And oppethree:

    quot;By ttering eye

    quot;No me?

    quot;the Bridegrooms doors are opend wide

    quot;And I am next of kin;

    quot;ts are met, t is set,--

    quot;Mayst he merry din.--

    But still --

    th he--

    quot;Nay, if t got a laugale,

    quot;Marinere! come ;

    h his skinny hand,

    Quothere was a Ship--

    quot;No thou grey-beard Loon!

    quot;Or my Staff s;

    tering eye--

    t stood still

    And listens like a three years child;

    th his will.

    t sate on a stone,

    c hear:

    And t ancyent man,

    t-eyed Marinere.

    the harbour cleard--

    Merrily did we drop

    Belohe hill,

    Belo-op.

    t,

    Out of the Sea came he:

    And , and on t

    ent doo the Sea.

    higher and higher every day,

    till over t at noon--

    t  ,

    For he loud bassoon.

    to the hall,

    Red as a rose is she;

    Nodding their heads before her goes

    tralsy.

    t  ,

    Yet  c hear:

    And t ancyent Man,

    t-eyed Marinere.

    Listen, Stranger! Storm and ind,

    A ind and tempest strong!

    For days and  playd us freaks--

    Like Chaff we drove along.

    Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow,

    And it grew wondrous cauld:

    And Ice mast-ing by

    As green as Emerauld.

    And ts ts

    Did send a dismal sheen;

    Ne ss we ken--

    tween.

    there,

    the Ice was all around:

    It crackd and growld, and roard and howld--

    Like noises of a swound.

    At lengtross,

    t came;

    And an it were a Cian Soul,

    e  in Gods name.

    t biscuit-worms,

    And round and round it ?ew:

    t ;

    teerd us thro.

    And a good south wind sprung up behind,

    tross did follow;

    And every day for food or play

    Came to the Marineres hollo!

    In mist or cloud on mast or shroud

    It perchd for vespers nine,

    te

    Glimmerd te moon-shine.

    quot;God save t Marinere!

    quot;From t plague thus--

    quot; t;--h my cross bow

    I s tross.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-2

    II.

    t,

    Out of the Sea came he;

    And broad as a  upon t

    ent doo the Sea.

    And till blew behind,

    But no s Bird did follow

    Ne any day for food or play

    Came to the Marineres hollo!

    And I hing

    And it would work em woe:

    For all averrd, I he Bird

    t made to blow.

    Ne dim ne red, like Gods own head,

    t:

    the Bird

    t broug.

    twas rigo slay

    t bring t.

    te foam ?ew,

    the furrow followd free:

    e  t ever burst

    Into t silent Sea.

    Do t down,

    twas sad as sad could be

    And o break

    the Sea.

    All in a  and copper sky

    t noon,

    Rig did stand,

    No bigger the moon.

    Day after day, day after day,

    e stuck, ne breation,

    As idle as a painted Ship

    Upon a painted Ocean.

    ater, er, every where

    And all the boards did shrink;

    ater, er, every where,

    Ne any drop to drink.

    t: O C!

    t ever this should be!

    Yea, slimy th legs

    Upon the slimy Sea.

    About, about, in reel and rout

    t night;

    ter, like a chs oils,

    Burnt green and blue and we.

    And some in dreams assured were

    Of t t plagued us so:

    Nine fathom deep he had followd us

    From t and Snow.

    And every tongue tter drouth

    as  t;

    e could not speak no more than if

    e .

    A evil looks

    had I from old and young;

    Instead of tross

    About my neck was hung.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-3

    III.

    I sahe Sky

    No bigger t;

    At ?rst it seemd a little speck

    And t seemd a mist:

    It movd and movd, and took at last

    A certain s.

    A speck, a mist, a s!

    And still it nerd and nerd;

    And, an it dodgd a er-sprite,

    It plungd and tackd and veerd.

    it unslackd, h black lips bakd

    Ne could we laugh, ne wail:

    tood

    I bit my arm and suckd the blood

    And cryd, A sail! a sail!

    it unslackd, h black lips bakd

    Agape they heard me call:

    Gramercy! they for joy did grin

    And all at once th drew in

    As they were drinking all.

    S tack from side to side--

    o work us weal

    iten en tide

    Seddies  keel.

    tern wave was all a ?ame,

    the day was well nigh done!

    Almost upon tern wave

    Rested t Sun;

    strange shape drove suddenly

    Bet us and the Sun.

    And strait th bars

    (her send us grace)

    As if te he peerd

    ith broad and burning face.

    Alas! (t I, and my  beat loud)

    she neres and neres!

    Are t glance in the Sun

    Like restless gossameres?

    Are these _her_ naked ribs, which ?eckd

    t did behem peer?

    And are the crew,

    t woman and her ?eshless Pheere?

    _h many a crack,

    All black and bare, I ween;

    Jet-black and bare, save w

    Of mouldy damps and c

    tch purple and green.

    _her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free,

    _her_ locks are yellow as gold:

    e as leprosy,

    And shan he;

    ill air cold.

    the naked hulk alongside came

    And twain were playing dice;

    quot;t;

    Quotled thrice.

    A gust of erte up behind

    And hro his bones;

    th

    les and half-groans.

    ithe Sea

    Off darts tre-ship;

    ern bar

    t Star

    Almost atips.

    One after one by the horned Moon

    (Listen, O Stranger! to me)

    Eacurnd ly pang

    And cursd me h his ee.

    Four times ?fty living men,

    ith never a sigh or groan,

    ithump, a lifeless lump

    they droppd down one by one.

    their bodies ?y,--

    to bliss or woe;

    And every soul it passd me by,

    Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-4

    IV.

    quot;I fear t Marinere!

    quot;I fear thy skinny hand;

    quot;And t long and lank and brown

    quot;As is the ribbd Sea-sand.

    quot;I fear ttering eye

    quot;And t;--

    Fear not, fear not, t!

    t not down.

    Alone, alone, all all alone

    Alone on the wide wide Sea;

    And C ake no pity on

    My soul in agony.

    tiful,

    And they all dead did lie!

    And a million million slimy things

    Livd on--and so did I.

    I lookd upon tting Sea,

    And drew my eyes away;

    I lookd upon tch deck,

    And the dead men lay.

    I lookd to ryd to pray;

    But or ever a prayer ,

    A wicked whisper came and made

    My  as dry as dust.

    I closd my lids and kept them close,

    till t;

    For the sky

    Lay like a load on my weary eye,

    And t my feet.

    t melted from their limbs,

    Ne rot, ne reek did they;

    they lookd on me,

    had never passd away.

    An orpo hell

    A spirit from on high:

    But O! more

    Is the curse in a dead mans eye!

    Seven days, seven nig curse

    And yet I could not die.

    t up the sky

    And no where did abide:

    Softly she was going up

    And a star or two beside--

    ry main

    Like morning frosts yspread;

    But whe ships huge shadow lay,

    ter burnt alway

    A still and awful red.

    Beyond the ship

    I cer-snakes:

    tracks of se;

    And w

    Fell off in hoary ?akes.

    ithe ship

    I ctire:

    Blue, glossy green, and velvet black

    track

    as a ?ash of golden ?re.

    O ongue

    ty might declare:

    A spring of love gus,

    And I blessd them unaware!

    Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

    And I blessd them unaware.

    t I could pray;

    And from my neck so free

    tross fell off, and sank

    Like lead into the sea.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-5

    V.

    O sleep, it is a gentle thing

    Belovd from pole to pole!

    to Mary-queen the praise be yeven

    S tle sleep from heaven

    t slid into my soul.

    ts on the deck

    t had so long remaind,

    I dreamt t th dew

    And w raind.

    My lips , my t was cold,

    My garments all were dank;

    Sure I had drunken in my dreams

    And still my body drank.

    I movd and could not feel my limbs,

    I was so lig

    I t t I had died in sleep,

    And was a blessed G.

    t roard far off,

    It did not come anear;

    But s sound it she sails

    t hin and sere.

    ts into life,

    And a hundred ?re-?ags sheen

    to and fro t;

    And to and fro, and in and out

    tars dance on between.

    th roar more loud;

    the sails do sigh, like sedge:

    the rain pours down from one black cloud

    And t its edge.

    ,

    And t its side:

    Like ers s from some high crag,

    tning falls h never a jag

    A river steep and wide.

    trong wind reac roard

    And droppd doone!

    Beneatning and the moon

    the dead men gave a groan.

    tirrd, they all uprose,

    Ne spake, ne movd their eyes:

    It range, even in a dream

    to hose dead men rise.

    teerd, the ship movd on;

    Yet never a breeze up-blew;

    the ropes,

    to do:

    tools--

    e were a gly crew.

    thers son

    Stood by me knee to knee:

    t one rope,

    But  to me--

    And I quakd to think of my own voice

    ful it would be!

    t daheir arms,

    And clusterd round t:

    S sounds rose slohs

    And from their bodies passd.

    Around, around, ?ew eac sound,

    ted to the sun:

    Slohe sounds came back again

    Now mixd, now one by one.

    Sometimes a dropping from the sky

    I he Lavrock sing;

    Sometimes all little birds t are

    o ?ll the sea and air

    it jargoning,

    And noruments,

    Noe;

    And no is an angels song

    t makes te.

    It ceasd: yet still the sails made on

    A pleasant noise till noon,

    A noise like of a hidden brook

    In th of June,

    t to t

    Singet tune.

    Listen, O listen, t!

    quot;Marinere! t thy will:

    quot;For t, h make

    quot;My body and soul to be still.quot;

    Never sadder tale old

    to a man of woman born:

    Sadder and !

    t rise to morrow morn.

    Never sadder tale was heard

    By a man of woman born:

    turnd to work

    As silent as beforne.

    the ropes,

    But look at me they nold:

    t I, I am as thin as air--

    t me behold.

    till moon ly saild on

    Yet never a breeze did breathe:

    Slo the ship

    Movd onh.

    Under thom deep

    From t and snow

    t slid: and it was he

    t made to go.

    t noon left off tune

    And tood still also.

    t up above t

    o the ocean:

    But in a minute sir

    it uneasy motion--

    Backwards and forwards h

    it uneasy motion.

    t go,

    She made a sudden bound:

    It ?ung to my head,

    And I fell into a swound.

    same ?t I lay,

    I  to declare;

    But ere my living life returnd,

    I heard and in my soul discernd

    the air,

    quot;Is it ; quot;Is the man?

    quot;By him who died on cross,

    quot;ith his cruel bow he layd full low

    quot;tross.

    quot;t wh by himself

    quot;In t and snow,

    quot; lovd the man

    quot; ;

    ter voice,

    As soft as honey-dew:

    Quoth penance done,

    And penance more will do.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-6

    VI.

    FIRSt VOICE.

    quot;But tell me, tell me! speak again,

    quot;t response renewing--

    quot; makes t s?

    quot; is t;

    SECOND VOICE.

    quot;Still as a Slave before his Lord,

    quot;t:

    quot; brig silently

    quot;Up to t--

    quot;If o go,

    quot;For sh or grim.

    quot;See, brother, see! how graciously

    quot;S;

    FIRSt VOICE.

    quot;But w s

    quot;iten ;

    SECOND VOICE.

    quot;t away before,

    quot;And closes from behind.

    quot;Fly, brother, ?y! more high, more high,

    quot;Or we sed:

    quot;For slo ship will go,

    quot;rance is abated.quot;

    I woke, and we were sailing on

    As in a gentle her:

    the moon was high;

    tood together.

    All stood togethe deck,

    For a cter:

    All ?xd on me tony eyes

    t in tter.

    they died,

    had never passd away:

    I could not draheirs

    Ne turn to pray.

    And in its time t,

    And I could move my een:

    I lookd far-fort little saw

    Of  else be seen.

    Like one, t on a lonely road

    Doth walk in fear and dread,

    And urnd round, walks on

    And turns no more his head:

    Because ful ?end

    Dotread.

    But soon thd a wind on me,

    Ne sound ne motion made:

    Its pat upon the sea

    In ripple or in shade.

    It raisd my  fannd my cheek,

    Like a meadow-gale of spring--

    It mingled strangely h my fears,

    Yet it felt like a welcoming.

    Sly, sly ?ehe ship,

    Yet sly too:

    Sly, sly blehe breeze--

    On me alone it blew.

    O dream of joy! is this indeed

    t-op I see?

    Is the Kirk?

    Is tree?

    e drifted oer the harbour-bar,

    And I h sobs did pray--

    quot;O let me be awake, my God!

    quot;Or let me sleep al;

    the harbour-bay was clear as glass,

    So smoot rewn!

    And on t lay,

    And the moon.

    t bay was we all oer,

    till rising from the same,

    Full many s shadows were,

    Like as of torches came.

    A little distance from the prow

    those dark-red shadows were;

    But soon I sa my own ?esh

    as red as in a glare.

    I turnd my head in fear and dread,

    And by the holy rood,

    the bodies had advancd, and now

    Before t tood.

    ted up tiff right arms,

    trait and tight;

    And eac-arm burnt like a torch,

    A torcs borne upright.

    tony eye-balls glitterd on

    In t.

    I prayd and turnd my head away

    Forth looking as before.

    the bay,

    No  the shore.

    t, the kirk no less

    t stands above the rock:

    t steepd in silentness

    teady hercock.

    And te  light,

    till rising from the same

    Full many s shadows were,

    In crimson colours came.

    A little distance from the prow

    those crimson shadows were:

    I turnd my eyes upon the deck--

    O C! here?

    Eac, lifeless and ?at;

    And by the holy rood

    A man all light, a seraph-man,

    On every corse tood.

    this seraph-band, each wavd his hand:

    It was a :

    tood as signals to the land,

    Eac:

    this seraph-band, each wavd his hand,

    No voice did t--

    No voice; but O! the silence sank,

    Like music on my .

    Eftsones I he dash of oars,

    I s cheer:

    My urnd perforce away

    And I sa appear.

    ts;

    the bodies rose anew:

    it pace, eaco his place,

    Came back tly crew.

    t sion made,

    On me alone it blew.

    t, and ts boy

    I :

    Dear Lord in  was a joy,

    t blast.

    I sahird--I heard his voice:

    It is t good!

    h loud his godly hymns

    t he wood.

    hell shrieve my soul, hell wash away

    trosss blood.

 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-7

    VII.

    t good lives in t wood

    o the Sea.

    voice he rears!

    o talk h Marineres

    t come from a far Contree.

    morn and noon and eve--

    h a cushion plump:

    It is t wholly hides

    tted old Oak-stump.

    t nerd: I alk,

    quot;range, I trow!

    quot;s so many and fair

    quot;t signal made but now?

    quot;Strange, by my fait; t said--

    quot;And t our cheer.

    quot;those sails

    quot;hey are and sere!

    quot;I never sahem

    quot;Unless perc were

    quot;tons of leaves t lag

    quot;My forest brook along:

    quot;od is h snow,

    quot;And t he wolf below

    quot;t eats the she-wolfs young.

    quot;Dear Lord! it ;--

    (t made reply)

    quot;I am a-feard.--quot;Pus;

    Said t cheerily.

    t came closer to the Ship,

    But I ne spake ne stirrd!

    t came close beneathe Ship,

    And strait a sound was heard!

    Under ter it rumbled on,

    Still louder and more dread:

    It reac split the bay;

    t down like lead.

    Stunnd by t loud and dreadful sound,

    e:

    Like one t h been seven days drownd

    My body lay a?oat:

    But, s as dreams, myself I found

    its boat.

    Upon the Ship,

    t spun round and round:

    And all ill, save t the hill

    as telling of the sound.

    I movd my lips: t shriekd

    And fell do.

    t raisd his eyes

    And prayd w.

    I took ts boy,

    h crazy go,

    Laughe while

    to and fro,

    quot;; quot;full plain I see,

    quot;to ro;

    And noree

    I stood on the ?rm land!

    t steppd fort,

    And scarcely and.

    quot;O s;

    t crossd his brow--

    quot;Say quick,quot; quot;I bid thee say

    quot; manner man art t;

    Forthis frame of mine was wrenchd

    ith a woeful agony,

    o begin my tale

    And t left me free.

    Since t an uncertain hour,

    Noimes and now fewer,

    t anguisell

    My gly aventure.

    I pass, like nigo land;

    I range power of speech;

    t t his face I see

    I kno must hear me;

    to ale I teach.

    loud uproar bursts from t door!

    ts are there;

    But in the Bride

    And Bride-maids singing are:

    And tle Vesper-bell

    o prayer.

    O edding-guest! th been

    Alone on a wide wide sea:

    So lonely t God himself

    Scarce seemed to be.

    O ser t,

    tis ser far to me

    to ogeto the Kirk

    ith a goodly company.

    to ogeto the Kirk

    And all together pray,

    o  father bends,

    Old men, and babes, and loving friends,

    And Youths, and Maidens gay.

    Fare tell

    to t!

    h well

    Bot.

    w,

    All t and small:

    For th us,

    h all.

    t,

    h age is hoar,

    Is gone; and no

    turnd from the bridegrooms door.

    , like one t unnd

    And is of sense forlorn:

    A sadder and a wiser man

    he morrow morn.

 THE FOSTER-MOTHERS TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

    I never sahe man whom you describe.

    MARIA.

    tis strange! he spake of you familiarly

    As mine and Alberts common Foster-mother.

    FOStER-MOthER.

    Nohe man, whoeer he be,

    t joined your names  lady,

    As often as I times

    tle ones and at eve

    On each side of my chair, and make me learn

    All you  in to talk

    In gentle po you--

    tis more like o come t _has_ been.

    MARIA.

    O my dear Motrange man  me

    troubled he moon

    Breeds in t it,

    till lost in in eye

    S t entrance, Mother!

    FOStER-MOthER.

    Can no one  is a perilous tale!

    MARIA.

    No one.

    FOStER-MOthER

    My old it me,

    Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul!

    he was a woodman, and could fell and saw

    ity arm. You kno huge round beam

    he old chapel?

    Beneat tree,  ree

    in mosses, lined

    itle-beards, and such small locks of wool

    As  him home,

    And reared  t.

    And so tty boy,

    A pretty boy, but most unteachable--

    And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,

    But knees,

    And wled, as he were a bird himself:

    And all tumn twas his only play

    to get to plant them

    iter, on tumps of trees.

    A Friar, whe wood,

    A grey-tle boy,

    taught him,

    e  time,

    Lived c t or tle.

    So h.

    But Och!--he read, and read, and read,

    till urned--and ere ieth year,

    s of many things:

    And to pray

    ith holy men, nor in a holy place--

    But yet   and s,

    te Lord Velez neer h him.

    And once, as by the Chapel

    tood together, chained in deep discourse,

    th such a groan,

    t tottered, and had well-nigh fallen

    Rigened;

    A fever seized him, and he made confession

    Of all tical and laalk

    t: so th was seized

    And cast into t her

    Sobbed like a c almost broke :

    And once as he cellar,

    inctly; ths,

    green ?elds,

    it were on lake or wild savannah,

    to  for food, and be a naked man,

    And  liberty.

    ed on th, and now

    e; and defying death,

    cunning entrance I described:

    And the young man escaped.

    MARIA.

    tis a s tale:

    Sucening co sleep,

    ears.--

    And w became of him?

    FOStER-MOthER.

    on ship-board

    ithose bold voyagers, who made discovery

    Of golden lands. Leonis younger brother

    ent likeo Spain,

    old Leoni, t th,

    Soon after t new world,

    In spite of ,

    And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight

    Up a great river, great as any sea,

    And neer is supposed,

    he savage men.

 LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE...

    LINES LEFt UPON A SEAt IN A YE-tREE ANDS NEAR tE,

    ON A DESOLAtE PARt OF t COMMANDING ABEAUtIFUL PROSPECt.

    --Nay, traveller! rest. tree stands

    Far from all  if here

    No sparkling rivulet spread t herb;

    if t loves;

    Yet, if t, the curling waves,

    t break against thy mind

    By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

    --ho he was

    t piled tones, and he mossy sod

    First covered oer, and taugree,

    Noo bend its arms in circling shade,

    I well remember.--he was one who ownd

    No common soul. In youth, by genius nursd,

    And big y viehe world

    ent fort, against taint

    Of dissolute tongues, gainst jealousy, and e,

    And scorn, against all enemies prepared,

    All but neglect: and so,  damped

    At once, urned away,

    And ained his soul

    In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs

    o sit,

    ants a straggling sheep,

    tone-c, or the glancing sand-piper;

    And on th juniper,

    And le, thinly sprinkled oer,

    Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour

    A morbid pleasure nourisracing here

    An emblem of ful life:

    And lifting up hen would gaze

    On tant scene; is

    t, and ill it became

    Far lovelier, and  could not sustain

    ty still more beauteous. Nor, t time,

    ould  to whose minds,

    arm from the labours of benevolence,

    the world, and man himself, appeared a scene

    Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh

    ito t ot

    never feel: and so, lost man!

    On visionary views would fancy feed,

    till reamed ears. In this deep vale

    .

    If t the holy forms

    Of young imagination  pure,

    Stranger!  pride,

    s oy,

    Is littleness; t empt

    For any living ties

    t h him

    Is in its infancy. the man, whose eye

    Is ever on h look on one,

    t of natures works, one w move

    to t scorn which wisdom holds

    Unlahou!

    Instructed t true knoo love,

    true dignity abides h him alone

    ,

    Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

    In lowliness of .

 THE NIGHTINGALE...

    tINGALE;A CONVERSAtIONAL POEM, RIttEN IN APRIL, 1798.

    No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

    Distinguis, no long thin slip

    Of sullen Ligrembling hues.

    Come,  on this old mossy Bridge!

    You see tream beneath,

    But  ?oly

    Oer its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

    A balmy nigars be dim,

    Yet let us the vernal showers

    t gladden th, and we shall ?nd

    A pleasure in tars.

    And ingale begins its song,

    quot;Most musical, most melanc;[1] Bird!

    A melanc!

    In nature thing melancholy.

    --But some nig was piercd

    ithe remembrance of a grievous wrong,

    Or sloemper or neglected love,

    (And so, poor retch himself

    And made all gentle sounds tell back tale

    Of his own sorrows) he and such as he

    First namd tes a melancrain;

    And many a poet ec,

    Poet, whe rhyme

    ter far retchd his limbs

    Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell

    By sun or moonligo the in?uxes

    Of sing elements

    Surrendering , of his song

    And of ful! so his fame

    Sures immortality,

    A venerable thing! and so his song

    Sure lovelier, and itself

    Be lovd, like nature!--But t be so;

    And yout poetical

    wilighe spring

    In ball-rooms and  tres, till

    Full of meek sympat heir sighs

    Oer Py-pleading strains.

    My Friend, and my Friends Sister! we

    A different lore:  thus profane

    Natures s voices always full of love

    And joyance! tis tingale

    t croes

    it tes,

    As  an April night

    ould be too s for o utter forth

    , and disburthen his full soul

    Of all its music! And I know a grove

    Of large extent, le huge

    lord ins not: and so

    tangling underwood,

    And trim walks are broken up, and grass,

    ths.

    But never elsewhere in one place I knew

    So many Nightingales: and far and near

    In  over the wide grove

    thers songs--

    ith skirmish and capricious passagings,

    And murmurs musical and s jug jug

    And one lo than all--

    Stirring th such an harmony,

    t s almost

    Forget it  day! On moonlight bushes,

    s are but half disclosd,

    You may percwigs,

    t, brig and full,

    Glistning, whe shade

    Ligorch.

    A most gentle maid

    able home

    le, and at latest eve,

    (Even like a Lady voe

    to someture in the grove)

    Glides tes,

    t gentle Maid! and oft, a moments space,

    time t behind a cloud,

    ill the Moon

    Emerging, h and sky

    ition, and those wakeful Birds

    fortrelsy,

    As if one quick and sudden Gale

    An chd

    Many a Nightingale perch giddily

    On blosmy till she breeze,

    And to t motion tune on song,

    Like tipsy Joy t reels ossing head.

    Fareill to-morrow eve,

    And you, my friends! farewell, a s farewell!

    e ering long and pleasantly,

    And norain again!

    Full fain it would delay me!--My dear Babe,

    iculate sound,

    Mars all tative lisp,

    how he would place his hand beside his ear,

    tle he small fore?nger up,

    And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

    to make ures playmate. he knows well

    tar: and once when he awoke

    In most distressful mood (some inward pain

    strange ts dream)

    I o our orc,

    And  once

    Suspends  silently,

    s tears

    Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! ell--

    It is a fatale. But if t heaven

    Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up

    Familiar

    e Joy! Once more farewell,

    S Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

    <span style="color:Gray">[1] quot;_Most musical, most melanc; tonpossesses an excellence far superior to t of meredescription: it is spoken in ter of tic_ propriety. to rescue y to a line in Milton: a co  per ofhaving ridiculed his Bible.

 THE FEMALE VAGRANT.

    By Ders side my Fattage stood,

    (tless story told)

    One ?eld, a ?ock, and he neighbouring ?ood

    Supplied, to han mines of gold.

    Ligransport rolld:

    itless joy I stretche shore

    My fats, or che fold

    ore,

    A dizzy dept and twinkling oar.

    My father was a good and pious man,

    An  man by  parents bred,

    And I believe t, soon as I began

    to lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,

    And in here my prayers I said:

    And afteraught,

    I read, and loved the books in which I read;

    For books in every neig,

    And noto my mind a ser pleasure brought.

    Can I forget w charms did once adorn

    My garden, stored , and thyme,

    And rose and lilly for th morn?

    tful chime;

    t sime;

    My  through long grass scarce espied;

    t Mays dewy prime;

    t, er-side,

    From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.

    taff I yet remember which upbore

    tive sire;

    beneathe honeyed sycamore

    er ?re;

    -morning came, t attire

    it on e, myself I deckd;

    My carts of furious ire,

    ranger passed, so often I have checkd;

    t kno peckd.

    ty summers danced along,--

    Atle marked,  they rolled away:

    then rose a mansion proud our woods among,

    And cottage after cottage os sway,

    No joy to see a neigray

    tures not er took;

    My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;

    ary nook,

    And ill could I t of sucing brook.

    But, whe proffered gold,

    to cruel injuries he became a prey,

    Sore traversed in weer  and sold:

    roubles grew upon him day by day,

    till all ance fell into decay.

    tle range of er was denied;[2]

    All but the bed where his old body lay,

    All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,

    e soug abide.

    Can I forget t miserable hour,

    op, my sire surveyed,

    Peering above trees, teeple tower,

    t on  music made?

    till t there be laid,

    Close by my motive bowers:

    Bidding me trust in God, ood and prayed,--

    I could not pray:--tears t fell in showers,

    Glimmerd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

    th whom I had loved so long,

    t  say.

    Mid tains many and many a song

    e tle birds in May.

    o tire of childish play

    e seemed still more and more to prize eacher:

    e talked of marriage and our marriage day;

    And I in truther,

    For never could I o meet her.

    to a distant town

    repair, to ply tists trade.

    tears of bitter grief till then unknown!

    tender vo sad kiss delayed!

    to urned:--we her aid.

    Like one revived, upon ,

    And her whom he had loved in joy, he said

    ;

    And in a quiet .

    Four years eac,

    By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.

    ts lay upon my breast;

    And often, vie smiles, I sighed,

    And kne wher died

    ress reduced the childrens meal:

    t from he grave did hide

    ty loom, cold  wheel,

    And tears t ?o heal.

    twas a ime was come;

    e had no hope, and no relief could gain.

    But soon, he noisy drum

    Beat round, to sreets of  and pain.

    My o strain

    Me and his children hungering in his view:

    In sucears were vain:

    to join those miserable men he ?ew;

    And noo t, h numbers more, we drew.

    t for months we bore,

    Nor yet t its ancirred.

    Green ?elds before us and our native shore,

    By fever, from polluted air incurred,

    Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.

    Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,

    Mid t long sickness, and those hopes deferrd,

    t  view:

    ting signal streamed, at last thdrew,

    But from delay t.

    On as ial deep

    Ran mountains--.

    e gazed error on the gloomy sleep

    Of t perishe whirlwinds sweep,

    Untaug soon suc ensue,

    Our  of af?iction reap,

    t he waves should rue.

    e reacern ed crew.

    Oo resign

    All t is dear _in_ being! better far

    In ants most lonely cave till deato pine,

    Unseen, uncar;

    Or in treets and walks where proud men are,

    Better our dying bodies to obtrude,

    t the heels of war,

    Protract a curst existence, he brood

    t lap (t!) thers blood.

    t on our heads came down,

    Disease and famine, agony and fear,

    In own,

    It tle even to hear.

    All perished--all, in one remorseless year,

    husband and children! one by one, by sword

    And ravenous plague, all perisear

    Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board

    A Britisrance restored.

    Peaceful as some immeasurable plain

    By t beams of da impressd,

    In t ttering main.

    ts ,

    t comes not to t.

    Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,

    A ;

    I looked and looked along t air,

    Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

    Ae terri?c sleeps!

    And groans, t rage of racking famine spoke,

    on festering heaps!

    tilence t rose like smoke!

    t from tant battle broke!

    t

    Driven by t troke

    to loats, w-sick anguisossd,

    self in agony !

    Yet does t burst of woe congeal my frame,

    reets appeared to heave and gape,

    orming army came,

    And Fire from ic shape,

    And Murder, by tly gleam, and Rape

    Seized t prey, the child!

    But from ts my brain, escape!

    --For  and mild,

    And on the gliding vessel heaven and Ocean smiled.

    Some migion past,

    I seemed transported to another world:--

    A t resigned

    tient mariner the sail unfurld,

    And  hardly curled

    t sea. From t ts of home,

    And from all hope I was forever hurled.

    For me--fart from eart to roam

    as best, could I but s w come.

    And oft, robbd of my perfect mind, I t

    At last my feet a resting-place had found:

    ,)

    Roaming table ers round;

    ch, of every human friend disowned,

    All day, my ready tomb the ocean-?ood--

    to break my dream ts bound:

    And ood,

    And near a tables pined, and ed food.

    By grief enfeebled urned adrift,

    on desart rock;

    Nor morsel to my mout day did lift,

    Nor dared my  any door to knock.

    I lay, he cock

    From timber of an out-house hung;

    olled, t nigy clock!

    At morn my sick  ung,

    Nor to tongue.

    So passed anothird:

    try, in vain, t,

    In deep despair by frigirrd,

    Near t:

    ture could no more support,

    itals fall;

    Dizzy my brain, erruption s

    Of ep could crawl,

    And to neigal.

    Recovery came  still, my brain

    as  had memory.

    I heir beds, complain

    Of many troubled me;

    Of feet still bustling round h busy glee,

    Of looks w,

    Of service done y,

    Fretting t,

    And groans, .

    t served to stir torpid sense,

    Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.

    Memory, turned rengthence

    Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,

    At , amazed.

    t, and as tired,

    Came,  blazed;

    te enquired,

    And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.

    My  is touco t men like these,

    tenants,  relief:

    t ease!

    And t feared not grief,

    For all belonged to all, and each was chief.

    No plougrained; on grating road

    No , the yellow sheaf

    In every vale for t owed:

    For tures meads, the milky udder ?owed.

    Semblance, rahey made

    Of potters o door:

    But life of  to me pourtrayed,

    And oto allure;

    t moor

    In barn uplighted, and companions boon

    ell met from far h revelry secure,

    In dept glade, when jocund June

    Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

    But ill it suited me, in journey dark

    Oer moor and mountain, midnig to ch;

    to chful bark.

    Or iptoe at ted latch;

    tern, and tch,

    tle shrill,

    And ear still busy on its nigch,

    ere not for me, broughing ill;

    Besides, on griefs so fress ill.

    could I do, unaided and unblest?

    Poor Fathine:

    And kindred of dead  best

    Small er marriage such as mine,

    ittle kindness o me incline.

    Ill oil or service ?t:

    itears w could con?ne,

    By ful

    .

    I lived upon the ?elds,

    And oft of cruelty the sky accused;

    On  general bounty yields,

    Noterly refused,

    ten used:

    But, s my peace  ruth

    Is, t I have my inner self abused,

    Foregone t of constant truth,

    And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

    ten have I viewd,

    In tears, to country tend

    lost all its fortitude:

    And noeps I bend--

    Oell me whly friend

    urned away,

    As if because ale  an end

    S;--because so say

    Of t perpetual weig lay.

    <span style="color:Gray">[2] Several of t out todifferent Fis by imaginary linesdrao rock.

 GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.

    GOODY BLAKE, AND RUE StORY.

    Os tter? ter?

    ist t ails young harry Gill?

    t evermore eetter,

    Cter, cter, cter still.

    Of coats harry has no lack,

    Good duf?e grey, and ?annel ?ne;

    on his back,

    And coats enougo smother nine.

    In March, December, and in July,

    quot;tis all th harry Gill;

    tell, and tell you truly,

    eetter, cter still.

    At nig morning, and at noon,

    tis all th harry Gill;

    Beneathe moon,

    eetter, cter still.

    Young y drover,

    And  of limb as he?

    his cheeks were red as ruddy clover,

    hree.

    Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,

    Ill fedd shinly clad;

    And any man who passd her door,

    Mig she had.

    All day she spun in her poor dwelling,

    And t night!

    Alas! twas elling,

    It  pay for candle-light.

    --t in Dorsetshire,

    was on a cold hill-side,

    And in t country coals are dear,

    For tide.

    By to boil ttage,

    two poor old dames, as I have known,

    ill often live in one small cottage,

    But s alone.

    twas well enough when summer came,

    tsome summer-day,

    t y_ dame

    ould sit, as any linnet gay.

    But ter,

    Ohen how her old bones would shake!

    You would  her,

    twas a ime for Goody Blake.

    hen were dull and dead;

    Sad case it hink,

    For very cold to go to bed,

    And t sleep a wink.

    Oer

    t nig,

    And scatterd many a lusty splinter,

    And many a rotten boug.

    Yet never had she, well or sick,

    As every man who knew her says,

    A pile before-ick,

    Enougo warm hree days.

    No enduring,

    And made o ache,

    Could any thing be more alluring,

    to Goody Blake?

    And no must be said,

    hen her old bones were cold and chill,

    S  her bed,

    to seek the hedge of harry Gill.

    Now ed

    trespass of old Goody Blake,

    And vo sected,

    And ake.

    And oft from his warm ?re hed go,

    And to take,

    And t nig and snow,

    co seize old Goody Blake.

    And once, behind a rick of barley,

    t did and;

    the moon was full and shining clearly,

    And crisp  tubble-land.

    --he hears a noise--hes all awake--

    Again?--on tip-toe dohe hill

    ly creeps--tis Goody Blake,

    S the hedge of harry Gill.

    Right glad was he when he beheld her:

    Stick after stick did Goody pull,

    ood behind a bush of elder,

    till she had ?lled her apron full.

    urned about,

    to take,

    arted for,

    And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

    And ?ercely by took her,

    And by t,

    And ?ercely by the arm he shook her,

    And cried, quot;Ive caug last!quot;

    thing said,

    fall;

    And kneeling on ticks, she prayd

    to God t is the judge of all.

    Sherd hand uprearing,

    he arm--

    quot;God!  of hearing,

    quot;O may ;

    the cold, cold moon above her head,

    thus on her knees did Goody pray,

    Young  she had said,

    And icy-cold urned away.

    complaining all the morrow

    t he was cold and very chill:

    was sorrow,

    Alas! t day for harry Gill!

    t day ,

    But not a he warmer he:

    Anot,

    And ere three.

    tter,

    And blankets  him pinnd;

    Yet still eetter,

    Like a loose casement in the wind.

    And  fell away;

    And all wis plain,

    t, live as long as live he may,

    he never will be warm again.

    No o any man ters,

    A-bed or up, to young or old;

    But ever to ters,

    quot;Poor ;

    A-bed or up, by night or day;

    eetter, cter still.

    Nohink, ye farmers all, I pray,

    Of Goody Blake and harry Gill.

 LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE...

    LINES RIttEN At A SMALL DIStANCE FROM MY  BY MY LIttLE BOY tO tO rong>

    It is t mild day of March:

    Eace ser than before,

    t sings from tall larch

    t stands beside our door.

    the air,

    o yield

    to trees, and mountains bare,

    And grass in the green ?eld.

    My Sister! (tis a wish of mine)

    No our morning meal is done,

    Make e, your morning task resign;

    Come forthe sun.

    Edh you, and pray,

    Put on h speed your woodland dress,

    And bring no book, for this one day

    ell give to idleness.

    No joyless forms se

    Our living Calendar:

    e from to-day, my friend, e

    the year.

    Love, noh.

    From  to  is stealing,

    From earto man, from man to earth,

    --It is the hour of feeling.

    One moment now may give us more

    ty years of reason;

    Our minds s every pore

    t of the season.

    Some silent laws our s may make,

    hey shall long obey;

    e for to come may take

    Our temper from to-day.

    And from t rolls

    About, below, above;

    ell frame the measure of our souls,

    tuned to love.

    ter! come, I pray,

    it on your woodland dress,

    And bring no book; for this one day

    ell give to idleness.

 SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN...

    SIMON LEE, tSMAN, It IN rong>

    In t shire of Cardigan,

    Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

    An old man dtle man,

    Ive all.

    Of years he has upon his back,

    No doubt, a burty;

    en,

    But oty.

    A long blue livery-coat has he,

    ts fair behind, and fair before;

    Yet, meet him where you will, you see

    At once t he is poor.

    Full ?ve and ty years he lived

    A running sman merry;

    And, t one eye left,

    his cheek is like a cherry.

    No man like he horn could sound.

    And no man was so full of glee;

    to say t, four counties round

    had heard of Simon Lee;

    ers dead, and no one now

    Dhe hall of Ivor;

    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

    he sole survivor.

    ing feats

    Of  eye, as you may see:

    And t limbs ts

    to poor old Simon Lee!

    he has no son, he has no child,

    his wife, an aged woman,

    Lives erfall,

    Upon the village common.

    And he is lean and he is sick,

    tle bodys half awry

    hick

    hin and dry.

    tle knew

    Of illage;

    And nohough weak,

    --t in the village.

    ry could outrun,

    Could leave both man and horse behind;

    And often, ere the race was done,

    one-blind.

    And still the world

    At w rejoices;

    For w,

    heir voices!

    Old Rut of doors h him,

    And does  do;

    For s over stout of limb,

    Is stouter of two.

    And tmost skill

    From labour could not hem,

    Alas! tis very little, all

    hem.

    Beside t of clay,

    Not ty paces from the door,

    A scrap of land t they

    Are poorest of the poor.

    th

    Enclosed wronger;

    But o them,

    ill no longer?

    Feore,

    As o you ell,

    For still, the more

    his poor old ancles swell.

    My gentle reader, I perceive

    iently youve ed,

    And Im afraid t you expect

    Some tale ed.

    O reader! had you in your mind

    Sucores as silent t can bring,

    O gentle reader! you would ?nd

    A tale in every thing.

    more I o say is s,

    I ake it;

    It is no tale; but shink,

    Perale youll make it.

    One summer-day I co see

    this old man doing all he could

    About t of an old tree,

    A stump of rotten wood.

    ttock totterd in his hand;

    So vain was his endeavour

    t at t of tree

    have worked for ever.

    quot;Youre overtasked, good Simon Lee,

    Give me your toolquot; to him I said;

    And at t gladly he

    Received my profferd aid.

    I struck, and h a single blow

    tangled root I severd,

    At whe poor old man so long

    And vainly had endeavourd.

    tears into ,

    And to run

    So fast out of , I t

    they never would have done.

    --Ive s unkind, kind deeds

    itill returning.

    Alas! titude of men

    ner left me mourning.

 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS...

    ANECDOtE FOR FAt OF LYING MAY BE tAUGrong>

    I have a boy of ?ve years old,

    o see;

    in beautys mould,

    And dearly he loves me.

    One morn rolld on our dry walk,

    Our quiet house all full in view,

    And ermitted talk

    As  to do.

    My ts on former pleasures ran;

    I t of Kilves delightful shore,

    My pleasant home, when spring began,

    A long, long year before.

    A day it was when I could bear

    to think again;

    ito spare,

    I could not feel a pain.

    My boy was by my side, so slim

    And graceful in ic dress!

    And oftentimes I talked to him,

    In very idleness.

    tty race;

    t and warm;

    quot;Kilve,quot; said I, quot; place,

    quot;And so is Liswyn farm.

    quot;My little boy, w;

    I said and took he arm--

    quot;Our ful shore,

    quot;Or  Lis;

    quot;And tell me, ;

    I said and he arm,

    quot;At Kilves smoothe green sea,

    quot;Or  Lis;

    In careless mood  me,

    ill I he arm,

    And said, quot;At Kilve Id rather be

    quot;t Lis;

    quot;Notle Edward, say why so;

    My little Edell me w;

    quot;I cannot tell, I do not kno;

    quot;range,quot; said I.

    quot;For, here are woods and green-hills warm;

    quot;t some reason be

    quot; Liswyn farm

    quot;For Kilve by t;

    At this, my boy, so fair and slim,

    hung down his head, nor made reply;

    And ?ve times did I say to him,

    quot;ell me w;

    ,

    It caug plain--

    Upon top, glittering bright,

    A broad and gilded vane.

    tongue unlock,

    And to me he made reply;

    quot;At Kilve ther-cock,

    quot;And ts t;

    O, dearest boy! my

    For better lore would seldom yearn,

    Could I but teac

    Of hee I learn.

 WE ARE SEVEN.

    A simple cher Jim,

    t ligs breath,

    And feels its life in every limb,

    s knoh?

    I met a little cottage girl,

    S years old, she said;

    h many a curl

    t clusterd round her head.

    Sic, woodland air,

    And she was wildly clad;

    her eyes were fair, and very fair,

    --y made me glad.

    quot;Sisters and brottle maid,

    quot;;

    quot;; she said,

    And  me.

    quot;And ;

    S;Seven are we,

    quot;And t Conway dwell,

    quot;And to sea.

    quot;the church-yard lie,

    quot;My sister and my brother,

    quot;And in ttage, I

    quot;D;

    quot;You say t t Conway dwell,

    quot;And to sea,

    quot;Yet you are seven; I pray you tell

    quot;S Maid, ;

    ttle Maid reply,

    quot;Seven boys and girls are we;

    quot;the church-yard lie,

    quot;Beneatree.quot;

    quot;You run about, my little maid,

    quot;Your limbs they are alive;

    quot;If the church-yard laid,

    quot;t;

    quot;t;

    ttle Maid replied,

    quot;teps or more from my mothers door,

    quot;And they are side by side.

    quot;My stockings ten knit,

    quot;My kerchere I hem;

    quot;And t--

    quot;I sit and sing to them.

    quot;And often after sunset, Sir,

    quot; is light and fair,

    quot;I take my little porringer,

    quot;And eat my supper there.

    quot;t t died tle Jane;

    quot;In bed she moaning lay,

    quot;till God released her of her pain,

    quot;And t away.

    quot;So in the church-yard she was laid,

    quot;And all the summer dry,

    quot;together round her grave we played,

    quot;My brother John and I.

    quot;And h snow,

    quot;And I could run and slide,

    quot;My broto go,

    quot;And ;

    quot;; said I,

    quot;If two are in ;

    ttle Maiden did reply,

    quot;O Master! ;

    quot;But two are dead!

    quot;ts are in ;

    till

    ttle Maid would have her will,

    And said, quot;Nay, ;

 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

    I es,

    e reclined,

    In t s mood s

    Bring sad ts to the mind.

    to ure link

    t through me ran;

    And muc grievd my  to think

    man has made of man.

    tufts, in t s bower,

    traild its hes;

    And tis my fait every ?ower

    Enjoys t breathes.

    the birds around me hoppd and playd:

    ts I cannot measure,

    But t motion whey made,

    It seemd a thrill of pleasure.

    t their fan,

    to catche breezy air;

    And I must think, do all I can,

    t there.

    If I ts may not prevent,

    If suche plan,

    reason to lament

    man has made of man?

 THE THORN.

    I.

    t looks so old,

    In trut o say,

    could ever have been young,

    It looks so old and grey.

    Not wo-years child,

    It stands erect thorn;

    No leaves it s;

    It is a mass of knotted joints,

    A ching forlorn.

    It stands erect, and like a stone

    it is overgrown.

    II.

    Like rock or stone, it is oergrown

    ito top,

    And ufts of moss,

    A melancholy crop:

    Up from these mosses creep,

    And t round

    So close, youd say t t

    it intent,

    to drag it to the ground;

    And all had joined in one endeavour

    to bury thorn for ever.

    III.

    ains  ridge,

    tormy er gale

    Cuts like a scythe clouds

    It so vale;

    Not ?ve yards from tain-path,

    t espy;

    And to t, three yards beyond,

    You see a little muddy pond

    Of er, never dry;

    Ive measured it from side to side:

    tis t long, and t wide.

    IV.

    And close beside thorn,

    t,

    A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

    Just  in .

    All lovely colours there you see,

    All colours t were ever seen,

    And mossy netoo is there,

    As if by hand of lady fair

    the work had woven been,

    And cups, the eye,

    So deep is their vermilion dye.

    V.

    A lovely tints are there!

    Of olive-green and scarlet bright,

    In spikes, in brancars,

    Green, red, and pearly we.

    th moss

    horn you see,

    So fress beauteous dyes,

    Is like an infants grave in size

    As like as like can be:

    But never, never any where,

    An infants grave was half so fair.

    VI.

    Nohorn,

    teous hill of moss,

    You must take care and cime

    tain wo cross.

    For oft ts, bethe heap

    ts like an infants grave in size,

    And t same pond of which I spoke,

    A  cloak,

    And to herself she cries,

    quot;Oh misery! oh misery!

    quot;O;

    VII.

    At all times of t

    tcher goes,

    And so every star,

    And every  blows;

    And ts

    s in the skies,

    And whe hill,

    Or frosty air is keen and still,

    And to herself she cries,

    quot;Oh misery! oh misery!

    quot;O;

    VIII.

    quot;Now w,

    quot;In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

    quot;to tain-top

    quot;Does this poor woman go?

    quot;And ws shorn

    quot;s in the sky,

    quot;Or whe hill,

    quot;Or frosty air is keen and still,

    quot;And wherefore does she cry?--

    quot;Oell me why

    quot;Does s t doleful cry?quot;

    IX.

    I cannot tell; I wish I could;

    For true reason no one knows,

    But if youd gladly vie,

    t to which she goes;

    ts like an infants grave,

    thorn, so old and grey,

    Pass by is seldom s--

    And if you see ,

    to t away!--

    I never heard of such as dare

    Approac where.

    X.

    quot;But ain-top

    quot;Can this unhappy woman go,

    quot;ever star is in the skies,

    quot;ever ;

    Nay rack your brain--tis all in vain,

    Ill tell you every thing I know;

    But to to the pond

    tle step beyond,

    I wis you would go:

    Per the place

    You sometale may trace.

    XI.

    Ill give you t help I can:

    Before you up tain go,

    Up to tain-top,

    Ill tell you all I know.

    tis noy years,

    Since sha Ray)

    Gave rue good will

    o Stephen hill;

    And she and gay,

    And sill

    of Stephen hill.

    XII.

    And the wedding-day,

    t must h;

    But Stepo another maid

    h;

    And o church

    Untep--

    Poor Mart woful day

    A cruel, cruel ?re, they say,

    Into :

    It dried her body like a cinder,

    And almost turnd o tinder.

    XIII.

    ter this,

    the summer-leaves were green,

    So tain-top would go,

    And ten seen.

    tis said, a child was in her womb,

    As noo any eye was plain;

    Sh child, and she was mad,

    Yet often she was sober sad

    From her exceeding pain.

    Oen times Id rather

    t  cruel father!

    XIV.

    Sad case for suco hold

    Communion irring child!

    Sad case, as you may think, for one

    ho had a brain so wild!

    Last Cmas his,

    Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,

    t in

    About its mot, and brought

    her senses back again:

    And  ime drew near,

    her looks were calm, her senses clear.

    XV.

    No more I know, I wish I did,

    And I ell it all to you;

    For his poor child

    t ever knew:

    And if a child was born or no,

    t could ever tell;

    And if twas born alive or dead,

    theres no one knows, as I have said,

    But some remember well,

    t Mart time

    ould up tain often climb.

    XVI.

    And all t er,

    tain-peak,

    the dark,

    to seek:

    For many a time and oft were heard

    Cries coming from tain-head,

    Some plainly living voices were,

    And others, Ive heard many swear,

    ere voices of the dead:

    I cannot teer they say,

    to do ha Ray.

    XVII.

    But t so thorn,

    to you,

    And ts in a scarlet cloak,

    I rue.

    For one day elescope,

    to vie,

    o try ?rst I came,

    Ere I has name,

    I climbed tains :

    A storm came on, and I could see

    No object han my knee.

    XVIII.

    t and rain, and storm and rain,

    No screen, no fence could I discover,

    And t was

    A en times over.

    I looked around, I t I saw

    A jutting crag, and oft I ran,

    , the driving rain,

    ter of to gain,

    And, as I am a man,

    Instead of jutting crag, I found

    A ed on the ground.

    XIX.

    I did not speak--I saw her face,

    was enough for me;

    I turned about and heard her cry,

    quot;O misery! O misery!quot;

    And ts, until the moon

    the clear blue sky will go,

    And wtle breezes make

    ters of to shake,

    As all try know,

    She shudders and you hear her cry,

    quot;Oh misery! oh misery!

    XX.

    quot;But s the pond?

    quot;And o her?

    quot;And  comes

    quot;ttle pond to stir?quot;

    I cannot tell; but some will say

    Sree,

    Some say s in the pond,

    tle step beyond,

    But all and each agree,

    ttle babe here,

    Beneat hill of moss so fair.

    XXI.

    Ive  moss is red

    it poor infants blood;

    But kill a ne thus!

    I do not think she could.

    Some say, if to the pond you go,

    And ?x on it a steady view,

    trace,

    A baby and a babys face,

    And t it looks at you;

    , tis plain

    t you again.

    XXII.

    And some  she

    So public justice brought;

    And for ttle infants bones

    it.

    But teous hill of moss

    Before to stir;

    And for full ?fty yards around,

    t she ground;

    But all do still aver

    ttle babe is buried there,

    Beneat hill of moss so fair.

    XXIII.

    I cannot tell his may be,

    But plain it is, thorn is bound

    itufts of moss, t strive

    to drag it to the ground.

    And time,

    ain high,

    By day, and in t night,

    ars s,

    t I have heard her cry,

    quot;Oh misery! oh misery!

    quot;O woe is me! o;

 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

    In distant countries I have been,

    And yet I  often seen

    A hy man, a man full grown

    eep in the public roads alone.

    But such a one, on English ground,

    And in t;

    Along the broad high-way he came,

    ears .

    Sturdy hough he was sad;

    And in his arms a lamb he had.

    urned aside,

    As if o hide:

    t he made essay

    to ears away.

    I followd ;My friend

    quot; ails you? w;

    --quot;Sy lamb,

    ears to ?ow.

    to-day I fetche rock;

    of all my ?ock.

    hen I was young, a single man.

    And after youthful follies ran,

    ttle given to care and t,

    Yet, so it ;

    And other sheep from her I raised,

    As  see,

    And then I married, and was rich

    As I could wiso be;

    Of sheep I numberd a full score,

    And every year encreasd my store.

    Year after year my stock it grew,

    And from this single ewe,

    Full ?fty comely sheep I raised,

    As s a ?ock as ever grazed!

    Upon tain did they feed;

    t hrive.

    --ty lamb of all my store

    Is all t is alive:

    And no if we die,

    And perisy.

    ten co feed,

    ime of need!

    My pride amed, and in our grief,

    I of the parish askd relief.

    thy man;

    My sain fed,

    And it  t took

    o buy us bread:quot;

    quot;Do to you,quot;

    t;o t;

    I sold a shey had said,

    And bougtle children bread,

    And their food;

    For me it never did me good.

    A ime it was for me,

    to see the end of all my gains,

    tty ?ock which I had reared

    ith all my care and pains,

    to see it melt like snow away!

    For me it was a woeful day.

    Anotill! and still another!

    A little lamb, and ts mother!

    It  never stoppd,

    Like blood-drops from my  they droppd.

    till ty  left alive

    they dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

    And I may say t many a time

    I wishey all were gone:

    they dwindled one by one away;

    For me it was a woeful day.

    to wicked deeds I was inclined,

    And wicked fancies crossd my mind,

    And every man I co see,

    I t he knew some ill of me

    No peace, no comfort could I ?nd,

    No ease, ,

    And crazily, and wearily,

    I  my .

    Oft-times I t to run away;

    For me it was a woeful day.

    Sir! to me,

    As dear as my own children be;

    For daily ore

    I loved my children more and more.

    Alas! it ime;

    God cursed me in my sore distress,

    I prayed, yet every day I t

    I loved my children less;

    And every week, and every day,

    My ?ock, it seemed to melt away.

    t to see!

    From ten to ?ve, from ?ve to three,

    A lamb, a her, and a ewe;

    And t last, from to two;

    And of my ?fty, yesterday

    I  only one,

    And  lies upon my arm,

    Alas! and I have none;

    to-day I fetc from the rock;

    It is t of all my ?ock.quot;

 THE DUNGEON.

    And thers made for man!

    the process of our love and wisdom,

    to eac us--

    Most innocent, per if guilty?

    Is the only cure? Merciful God?

    Eacural outlet shrivelld up

    By ignorance and parcy,

    ,

    And stagnate and corrupt; till co poison,

    t on ;

    tebanks--

    And t cure! uncomforted

    And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,

    And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

    Seen teams and vapour of his dungeon,

    By t! So he lies

    Circled ill his very soul

    Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed

    By sigy!

    itrations ture!

    tempered child:

    t on  in?uences,

    ts,

    ters,

    till , and can no more endure

    to be a jarring and a dissonant t£ð://£÷£÷£÷?9£¹£ì£éb?n£å£ô</bdo>

    Amid trelsy;

    But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,

    healed and harmonized

    By t toucy.

 THE MAD MOTHER.

    her eyes are wild, her head is bare,

    t her coal-black hair,

    y stain,

    And she main.

    She has a baby on her arm,

    Or else she were alone;

    And underneatack warm,

    And on tone,

    Salked and sung the woods among;

    And it ongue.

    quot;S babe! t I am mad,

    But nay, my  is far too glad;

    And I am happy when I sing

    Full many a sad and doleful thing:

    t fear!

    I pray thee have no fear of me,

    But, safe as in a cradle, here

    My lovely baby! t be,

    to too much I owe;

    I cannot hee any woe.

    A ?re hin my brain;

    And in my head a dull, dull pain;

    And ?endishree,

    my breasts, and pulled at me.

    But t of joy;

    It came at once to do me good;

    I tle boy,

    My little boy of ?esh and blood;

    O sigo see!

    For he was here, and only he.

    Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

    It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

    they

    Drahe pain away.

    Otle hand;

    It loosens somet my c;

    About t tight and deadly band

    I feel ttle ?ngers pressd.

    tree;

    It comes to cool my babe and me.

    Otle boy!

    t thers only joy;

    And do not dread the waves below,

    he sea-rocks edge we go;

    t work me harm,

    Nor leaping torrents whey howl;

    the babe I carry on my arm,

    he saves for me my precious soul;

    t am I;

    it me my s babe would die.

    t fear, my boy! for thee

    Bold as a lion I will be;

    And I hy guide,

    through hollow snows and rivers wide.

    Ill build an Indian bower; I know

    t make test bed:

    And if from me t not go,

    But still be true till I am dead,

    My pretty t sing,

    As merry as the birds in spring.

    t for my breast,

    tis t baby, to rest:

    tis all ts hue

    Be c o view,

    tis fair enoughee, my dove!

    My beauty, little child, is ?own;

    But t live h me in love,

    And w if my poor cheek be brown?

    tis  not see

    else would be.

    Dread not taunts, my little life!

    I am thers wedded wife;

    And underneatree

    e two will live in y.

    If  boy he could forsake,

    itayd:

    From ake,

    But ched made,

    And every day wo will pray

    For s gone and far away.

    Ill teacest things;

    Ill teac sings.

    My little babe! till,

    And t almost suckd thy ?ll.

    -- thou gone my own dear child?

    hose I see?

    Alas! alas! t look so wild,

    It never, never came from me:

    If t mad, my pretty lad,

    t be for ever sad.

    Otle lamb!

    For I ther am.

    My love for tried:

    Ive sougher far and wide.

    I knohe shade,

    I knos ?t for food;

    tty dear, be not afraid;

    ell ?nd the wood.

    Nohe woods away!

    And there, my babe; well live for aye.

 THE IDIOT BOY.

    tis eig,

    the sky is blue,

    t in t air,

    s from nobody knows where;

    ,

    halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

    --le t your door,

    means tle, Betty Foy?

    y fret?

    And w

    boy?

    Beneat s,

    till sired, let Betty Foy

    it and stirrup ?ddle-faddle;

    But w upon a saddle

    boy?

    ts out of bed;

    Good Betty! put him down again;

    you,

    But, Betty! w o do

    itirrup, saddle, or h rein?

    tis very idle,

    Betime of night;

    t a mot one,

    But w you have done,

    Oty s.

    But Bettys bent on ent,

    For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,

    Old Susan, she who dwells alone,

    Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,

    As if her very life would fail.

    t a hin a mile.

    No o ress:

    Old Susan lies a bed in pain,

    And sorely puzzled are twain,

    For w s guess.

    And Bettys  the wood,

    h abide,

    A ant vale;

    to help poor Susan Gale,

    must be done? ide?

    And Betty from tched

    is mild and good,

    her he be in joy or pain,

    Feeding at he lane,

    Or bringing faggots from the wood.

    And ravelling trim,

    And by t, Betty Foy

    ,

    t,

    boy.

    And  post  delay

    Across ts in the dale,

    And by the down,

    to bring a doctor from town,

    Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

    t or spur,

    there is no need of whip or wand,

    For Johnny has his holly-bough,

    And h a hurly-burly now

    he green bough in his hand.

    And Betty oer and oer old

    t delight,

    Bot to folloo shun,

    do, and o leave undone,

    urn to left, and o right.

    And Bettys most especial charge,

    as, quot;Jo you

    quot;Come op at all,

    quot;Come eer befal,

    quot;My Jo;

    to this did Johnny answer make,

    Both his hand,

    And proudly soo,

    And t a few,

    ty and.

    And no Jo going,

    ttys in a mighty ?urry,

    Sly pats the ponys side,

    On  ride,

    And seems no longer in a hurry.

    But whe pony moved his legs,

    O boy!

    For joy  he bridle,

    For joy his head and heels are idle,

    hes idle all for very joy.

    And whe pony moves his legs,

    In Jo-hand you may see,

    tionless and dead;

    t shines above his head

    Is not more still and mute than he.

    it was so full of glee,

    t till full ?fty yards were gone,

    e forgot his holly whip,

    And all his skill in horsemanship,

    Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

    And Bettys standing at the door,

    And Bettys face h joy oer?ows,

    Proud of herself, and proud of him,

    Sravelling trim;

    ly her Johnny goes.

    t boy,

    sends to Bettys !

    t--urns right,

    Scill  of sight,

    And Betty  t.

    Burr, burr--now Johey burr,

    As loud as any mill, or near it,

    Meek as a lamb the pony moves,

    And Johe noise he loves,

    And Betty listens, glad to .

    Away so Susan Gale:

    And Joune,

    ts , ts curr,

    And Johey burr, burr, burr,

    And on he moon.

    eed and  well agree,

    For of theres a rumour,

    t should he lose his eyes and ears,

    And shousand years,

    of humour.

    But t thinks!

    And whinks his pace is slack;

    Nohough he knows poor Johnny well,

    Yet for  tell

    upon his back.

    So t lanes they go,

    And far into t dale,

    And by the down,

    to bring a doctor from town,

    to comfort poor old Susan Gale.

    And Betty, no Susans side,

    Is in tory,

    comfort Johnny soon will bring,

    it diverting thing,

    Of Jo and Johnnys glory.

    And Bettys still at Susans side:

    By time s quite so ?urried;

    Demure e

    Ss, as if in Susans fate

    her life and soul were buried.

    But Betty, poor good woman! she,

    You plainly in ,

    Could lend out of t moments store

    Five years of happiness or more,

    to any t mig.

    But yet I guess t nohen

    itty all  so well,

    And to turns her ears,

    And thence full many a sound she hears,

    o Susan  tell.

    Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,

    quot;As sure as t;

    Cries Betty, quot;hell be back again;

    quot;tis almost ten,

    quot;t;

    Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,

    the clock gives warning for eleven;

    tis on troke--quot;If Jo;

    Quotty quot;he will soon be here,

    quot;As sure as t;

    troke of twelve,

    And Jo yet in sight,

    tty sees,

    But Betty is not quite at ease;

    And Susan .

    And Betty, half an hour ago,

    On Joions cast;

    quot;A little idle sauntering t;

    itring,

    But no time is gone and past.

    And Bettys drooping at t,

    t ime all past and gone,

    quot; be e?

    quot;tor ,

    quot;Susan! t;

    And Susans growing worse and worse,

    And Bettys in a sad quandary;

    And to say

    If s go or s stay:

    --Shes in a sad quandary.

    troke of one;

    But neitor nor his guide

    Appear along t road,

    ther horse nor man abroad,

    And Bettys still at Susans side.

    And Susan so fear

    Of sad misc a few,

    t Johnny may perhaps be drownd,

    Or lost perhaps, and never found;

    both for ever rue.

    S of this

    it;God forbid it srue!quot;

    At t  Susan said

    Cried Betty, rising from the bed,

    quot;Susan, Id gladly stay h you.

    quot;I must be gone, I must away,

    quot;Consider, Jo half-wise;

    quot;Susan,  take care of him,

    quot;If  in life or limbquot;--

    quot;O; poor Susan cries.

    quot; can I do?quot; says Betty, going,

    quot; can I do to ease your pain?

    quot;Good Susan tell me, and Ill stay;

    quot;I fear youre in a dreadful way,

    quot;But I s;

    quot;Good Betty go, good Betty go,

    quot;t can ease my pain.quot;

    t h a prayer

    t God poor Susans life would spare,

    till she comes back again.

    So, t lane she goes,

    And far into t dale;

    And how she ran, and how she walked,

    And all t to alked,

    ould surely be a tedious tale.

    In high and low, above, below,

    In great and small, in round and square,

    In tree and tower was Johnny seen,

    In bush and brake, in black and green,

    twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

    S ts in the dale,

    And no torments her sore,

    Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,

    to  ts in the brook,

    And never will be heard of more.

    And now she down,

    Alone amid a prospect wide;

    ther Johnny nor his horse,

    Among the gorse;

    tor nor his guide.

    quot;Os! w is become of him?

    quot;Pero an oak,

    quot;ay till he is dead;

    quot;Or sadly he has been misled,

    quot;And joined the wandering gypsey-folk.

    quot;Or  wicked ponys carried

    quot;to the goblins hall,

    quot;Or in tle hes pursuing,

    quot;Among ts, his own undoing;

    quot;Or playing erfall.quot;

    At poor old Susan then she railed,

    o town ss away;

    quot;If Susan  been so ill,

    quot;Alas! I sill,

    quot;My Joill my dying day.quot;

    Poor Betty! in temper,

    tors self would hardly spare,

    Unalked and wild,

    Even tle t mild,

    the pony had his share.

    And noo town,

    And to tors door she hies;

    tis silence all on every side;

    toown so wide,

    Is silent as the skies.

    And noors door,

    Ss the knocker, rap, rap, rap,

    tor at t shews,

    peep and doze;

    And one -cap.

    quot;Oor! Doctor! w;

    quot;Im  ist you  ;

    quot;Oty Foy,

    quot;And I  my poor dear boy,

    quot;You know en see;

    quot; so ;

    quot;take ; said

    tor, looking somew grim,

    quot;, woman! s;

    And, grumbling,  back to bed.

    quot;O woe is me! O woe is me!

    quot;here will I die; here will I die;

    quot;I t to ?nd my Johnny here,

    quot;But her far nor near,

    quot;O a c;

    Sops, sands, s,

    o turn s tell.

    Poor Betty! it would ease her pain

    If s to knock again;

    --trikes three--a dismal knell!

    town she hies,

    No wonder if her senses fail,

    teous news so muc shockd her,

    Se forgot to send tor,

    to comfort poor old Susan Gale.

    And now she down,

    And she can see a mile of road,

    quot;O three-score;

    quot;Suc as this was neer before,

    quot;t a single soul abroad.quot;

    Sens, but s hear

    t of he voice of man;

    treams est sound are ?owing,

    t  growing,

    You  now if eer you can.

    ts t

    Are sing to eacill:

    Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob,

    t tremulous sob,

    t eco hill.

    Poor Betty now  all hope,

    s are bent on deadly sin;

    A green-grown pond s has passd,

    And from t,

    Lest sherein.

    And now ss her down and weeps;

    Sucears she never shed before;

    quot;O joy!

    quot;O boy!

    quot;And ;

    A t is come into her head;

    quot;the pony he is mild and good,

    quot;And we have always used him well;

    quot;Perhe dell,

    quot;And carried Joo t;

    then up she springs as if on wings;

    Shinks no more of deadly sin;

    If Betty ?fty ponds should see,

    t of all s would be,

    to drown herein.

    O I migell

    Johnny and his horse are doing!

    time,

    O it into rhyme,

    A most deligale pursuing!

    Per!

    h roam

    t are,

    to lay ar,

    And in  bring it home.

    Perurned ,

    o ail,

    And still and mute, in ,

    All like a silent ,

    ravels on along the vale.

    And now, pering sheep,

    A ?erce and dreadful er he!

    Yon valley, ts so trim and green,

    In ?ve montime, should he be seen,

    A desart wilderness will be.

    Perh head and heels on ?re,

    And like the very soul of evil,

    hes galloping away, away,

    And so hell gallop on for aye,

    t dread the devil.

    I to the muses have been bound,

    teen years, by strong indentures;

    Ole muses! let me tell

    But  to him befel,

    For sure  range adventures.

    Ole muses! is this kind?

    repel?

    her aid bereave me?

    And can ye thus unfriended leave me?

    Ye muses! whom I love so well.

    , near terfall,

    h headlong force,

    Beneat shining fair,

    As careless as if nothing were,

    Sits upright on a feeding horse?

    Unto s feeding free,

    o give;

    Of moon or stars akes no heed;

    Of such we in romances read,

    --tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

    And ts too.

    ty Foy?

    Sain her fears;

    ter-fall she hears,

    And cannot ?nd  boy.

    Your ponys  in gold,

    terrors, Betty Foy!

    Srees,

    And now, all full in view, she sees

    boy.

    And Betty sees too:

    and you tty Foy?

    It is no goblin, tis no g,

    tis ,

    boy.

    She looks again--her arms are up--

    S move for joy;

    Ss as orrents force,

    S urned the horse,

    And fast s boy.

    And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud,

    her in cunning or in joy,

    I cannot tell; but while he laughs,

    Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,

    to  boy.

    And noail,

    And nohe ponys head,

    On t side nohis,

    And almost sti?ed h her bliss,

    A feears does Betty shed.

    She kisses oer and oer again,

    boy,

    Shere,

    She is uneasy every where;

    h joy.

    Ss the pony, where or when

    S, ty Foy!

    ttle pony glad may be,

    But han she,

    You hardly can perceive his joy.

    quot;Oor;

    quot;Youve done your best, and t is all.quot;

    Sook this was said,

    And gently turned the ponys head

    From ter-fall.

    By tars  gone,

    tting on the hill,

    So pale you scarcely looked at her:

    ttle birds began to stir,

    t tongues ill.

    tty, and her boy,

    ind slohe woody dale:

    And wimes abroad,

    t eep rough road?

    , but old Susan Gale?

    Long Susan lay deep lost in t,

    And many dreadful fears beset her,

    Both for her messenger and nurse;

    And as her mind grew worse and worse,

    greter.

    Surned, sossd herself in bed,

    On all sides doubts and terrors met her;

    Point after point did she discuss;

    And hus,

    ill greter.

    quot;Alas! hem?

    quot;these fears can never be endured,

    quot;Ill to t;--the word scarce said,

    Did Susan rise up from her bed,

    As if by magic cured.

    Away ss up hill and down,

    And to t length is come,

    Ss a greeting;

    O is a merry meeting,

    As ever was in Cendom.

    t,

    ravellers homeward wend;

    ted all night long,

    And he owls began my song,

    And  end.

    For wravelling home,

    Cried Betty, quot;tell us Johnny, do,

    quot; you have been,

    quot; you  you have seen,

    quot;And Joell us true.quot;

    Now Jo long had heard

    tuneful concert strive;

    No doubt too he moon had seen;

    For in t he had been

    From eigill ?ve.

    And to Bettys question, he

    Made ansraveller bold,

    (o you,)

    quot;to-wo-whoo,

    quot;And t;

    --thus answered Johnny in his glory,

    And t ory.

 LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND...

    LINES RIttEN NEAR RIC EVENING.

    , imprest

    its summer hues,

    ,

    t  path pursues!

    And see ream!

    A little moment past, so smiling!

    And still, perhless gleam,

    Some oterer beguiling.

    Suchful bard allure,

    But, he following gloom,

    heir colours shall endure

    till peace go o tomb.

    --And let ,

    And w if  die in sorrow!

    c,

    to-morrow?

    Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

    O t other bards may see,

    As lovely visions by thy side

    As noo me.

    Oream! for ever so;

    t soul on all bestowing,

    till all our minds for ever ?ow,

    As ters now are ?owing.

    Vain t! yet be as no,

    t in ters may be seen

    ts ,

    , how solemn, how serene!

    Suc did once t bless,

    er_ ditty,

    Could ?nd no refuge from distress,

    But in ty.

    Remembrance! as we glide along,

    For he dashing oar,

    And pray t never child of Song

    May know his freezing sorrows more.

    ill! the only sound,

    the oar suspended!

    --thers round

    By virtues  potended.

    [3] Collinss Ode on t ten, Ibelieve, of time. to in t stanza.

 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

    quot; old grey stone,

    quot;th of half a day,

    quot; you thus alone,

    quot;And dream your time away?

    quot; lighd

    quot;to beings else forlorn and blind!

    quot;Up! Up! and drink t breathd

    quot;From dead men to their kind.

    quot;You look round on your moth,

    quot;As if she for no purpose bore you;

    quot;As if you h,

    quot;And none ;

    One morning te lake,

    I kne why,

    to me my good friend Matthew spake,

    And thus I made reply.

    quot;t cannot c see,

    quot;e cannot bid till;

    quot;Our bodies feel, whey be,

    quot;Against, or h our will.

    quot;Nor less I deem t there are powers,

    quot;hemselves our minds impress,

    quot;t his mind of ours,

    quot;In a wise passiveness.

    quot;ty sum

    quot;Of things for ever speaking,

    quot;t notself will come,

    quot;But  still be seeking?

    quot;--t wherefore, here, alone,

    quot;Conversing as I may,

    quot;I sit upon tone,

    quot;And dream my time a;

 THE TABLES TURNED...

    tABLES tURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON t.

    Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,

    oil and trouble?

    Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,

    Or surely youll grow double.

    tains head,

    A fresre mellow,

    the long green ?elds has spread,

    s evening yellow.

    Books! tis a dull and endless strife,

    Come, ,

    his music; on my life

    t.

    And le sings!

    And he is no mean preacher;

    Come forto t of things,

    Let Nature be your teacher.

    Sh,

    Our minds and s to bless--

    Spontaneous h,

    truthed by chearfulness.

    One impulse from a vernal wood

    May teach you more of man;

    Of moral evil and of good,

    the sages can.

    S is ture brings;

    Our meddling intellect

    Misseous forms of things;

    --e murder to dissect.

    Enoug;

    Close up these barren leaves;

    Come fort

    t ches and receives.

 OLD MAN TRAVELLING...

    OLD MAN tRAVELLING; ANIMAL tRANQUILLItY AND DECAY, A SKEtCrong>

    ttle hedge-row birds,

    t peck along t.

    ravels on, and in ep,

    , is one expression; every limb,

    his look and bending ?gure, all bespeak

    A man  moves

    it--he is insensibly subdued

    to settled quiet: he is one by whom

    All effort seems forgotten, one to whom

    Long patience has such mild composure given,

    t patience nohing, of which

    ure led

    to peace so perfect, t the young behold

    it the old man hardly feels.

    --I asked

    t of his journey; he replied

    quot;Sir! I am going many miles to take

    quot;A last leave of my son, a mariner,

    quot;  to Falmouth,

    And tal.quot;

 THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

    <span style="color:Gray">[_o continue  beer, food, and fuel if tuationof t. rack o pursue, and if o folloaket; unless une to fall in ribes of Indians. It is unnecessaryto add t till more, exposed to te. See t very interesting s, as terinforms us, vary tion in tling and acrackling noise. tance is alluded to in t stanza ofthe following poem._]

    Before I see another day,

    O my body die away!

    In sleep I hern gleams;

    tars they were among my dreams;

    In sleep did I behe skies,

    I sahe crackling ?ashes drive;

    And yet they are upon my eyes,

    And yet I am alive.

    Before I see another day,

    O my body die away!

    My ?re is dead: it knew no pain;

    Yet is it dead, and I remain.

    All stiff he ashes lie;

    And they are dead, and I will die.

    o live,

    For cloth, for food, and ?re;

    But to me no joy can give,

    No pleasure now, and no desire.

    tented will I lie;

    Alone I cannot fear to die.

    Alas! you might have dragged me on

    Another day, a single one!

    too soon despair oer me prevailed;

    too soon my less spirit failed;

    ronger,

    And Oh how grievously I rue,

    t, aftertle longer,

    My friends, I did not follow you!

    For strong and  pain I lay,

    My friends, when you were gone away.

    My co another,

    A her.

    ook,

    On me rangely did he look!

    thing ran,

    A most strange something did I see;

    --As if rove to be a man,

    t  pull the sledge for me.

    And tretched his arms, how wild!

    Otle child.

    My little joy! my little pride!

    In t have died.

    t weep and grieve for me;

    I feel I must hee.

    O oer my  ?ying,

    their course did bend,

    I s feel the pain of dying,

    Could I hee a message send.

    too soon, my friends, you  away;

    For I o say.

    Ill follohe snow,

    You travel heavily and slow:

    In spite of all my weary pain,

    Ill look upon your tents again.

    My ?re is dead, and snowy we

    ter ood;

    to me to-night,

    And olen away my food.

    For ever left alone am I,

    to die?

    My journey will be sly run,

    I s see another sun,

    I cannot lift my limbs to know

    If they have any life or no.

    My poor forsaken child! if I

    For once could o me,

    it I then would die,

    And my last ts would happy be,

    I feel my body die away,

    I s see another day.

 THE CONVICT.

    t;

    --On tain I stood;

    precedes t

    Rang loud the meadow and wood.

    quot;And must  from a d;

    In t I said,

    And urned, to repair

    to t is laid.

    t oerse

    Resound; and the dungeons unfold:

    I pause; and at lengte,

    t outcast of pity behold.

    ted ,

    And deep is th,

    And edfast dejection ent

    On tters t link o death.

    tis sorroo gaze.

    t body dismissd from his care;

    Yet my fancy o , and pourtrays

    More terrible images there.

    his bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried,

    it to undo;

    And  oerwhelm him, descried,

    Still blackens and grows on his view.

    he dark synod, or blood-reeking ?eld,

    to he monarch is led,

    All soot virtue shall yield,

    And quietness pillow his head.

    But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,

    And conscience ortures appease,

    Mid tumult and uproar t repose;

    In tless vault of disease.

    ters at night have so pressd on his limbs,

    t t can no longer be borne,

    If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims,

    tc surn,

    iff  the dull clanking chain,

    From ts of art

    A tures of cold-sing pain,

    And terror s .

    But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,

    And tion unsettles a tear;

    t seems to supply,

    And asks of me why I am here.

    quot;Poor victim! no idle intruder ood

    quot;itate to compare,

    quot;But one, w wiso be good,

    quot;Is come as a broto share.

    quot;At ture resign,

    quot;tues proud mout be a stain,

    quot;My care, if ty were mine,

    quot;ould plant t tst blossom again.quot;

 LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY...

    LINES RIttEN A FE MILES ABOVE tINtERN ABBEY, ON REVISItING trong>

    OF tOUR, July 13, 1798.

    Five years h

    Of ?ve long ers! and again I hear

    ters, rolling from tain-springs

    it inland murmur.[4]--Once again

    Do I beeep and lofty cliffs,

    hich on a wild secluded scene impress

    ts of more deep seclusion; and connect

    t of the sky.

    the day is come when I again repose

    his dark sycamore, and view

    ts of cottage-ground, tufts,

    ts,

    Among themselves,

    Nor, urb

    the wild green landscape. Once again I see

    ttle lines

    Of sportive oral farms

    Green to thes of smoke

    Sent up, in silence, from among trees,

    itain notice, as might seem,

    Of vagrant dhe houseless woods,

    Or of some s cave, where by his ?re

    t sits alone.

    t long,

    ty  been to me,

    As is a landscape to a blind mans eye:

    But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

    Of toies, I o them,

    In ions s,

    Felt in t along t,

    And passing even into my purer mind

    itranquil restoration:--feelings too

    Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

    As may rivial in?uence

    On t best portion of a good mans life;

    tle, nameless, unremembered acts

    Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

    to t,

    Of aspect more sublime; t blessed mood,

    In wery,

    In w

    Of all telligible world

    Is lig serene and blessed mood,

    In ly lead us on,

    Until, this corporeal frame,

    And even tion of our human blood

    Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

    In body, and become a living soul:

    by the power

    Of he deep power of joy,

    e see into things.

    If this

    Be but a vain belief, yet, o,

    In darkness, and amid the many shapes

    Of joyless day-ligful stir

    Unpro?table, and the world,

    ings of my ,

    , in spirit, urned to thee

    O sylvan ye! the woods,

    en  turned to thee!

    And noinguis,

    itions dim and faint,

    And somey,

    ture of the mind revives again:

    and, not only he sense

    Of present pleasure, but s

    t in t there is life and food

    For future years. And so I dare to hope

    t, from w I was, w

    I came among these hills; when like a roe

    I bounded oer tains, by the sides

    Of treams,

    ure led; more like a man

    Flying from somet han one

    ture then

    (the coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

    And ts all gone by,)

    to me  paint

    taract

    ed me like a passion: tall rock,

    tain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

    to me

    An appetite: a feeling and a love,

    t er charm,

    By t supplied, or any interest

    Unborro time is past,

    And all its aching joys are now no more,

    And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

    Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: ots

    have followed, for such loss, I would believe,

    Abundant recompence. For I have learned

    to look on nature, not as in the hour

    Of tless yout entimes

    till, sad music of y,

    Not ing, though of ample power

    to cen and subdue. And I

    A presence t disturbs me he joy

    Of elevated ts; a sense sublime

    Of someterfused,

    of setting suns,

    And the living air,

    And the mind of man,

    A motion and a spirit, t impels

    All ts of all t,

    And rolls till

    A lover of the woods,

    And mountains; and of all t we behold

    From ty world

    Of eye and ear, bot te,[5]

    And o recognize

    In nature and the sense,

    t ts, the nurse,

    t, and soul

    Of all my moral being.

    Nor, perchance,

    If I  taughe more

    Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

    For t he banks

    Of t Friend,

    My dear, dear Friend, and in tch

    t, and read

    My former pleasures in ting lights

    Of t a little while

    May I be I was once,

    My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,

    Kno Nature never did betray

    t t loved is her privilege,

    to lead

    From joy to joy: for she can so inform

    t is hin us, so impress

    itness and beauty, and so feed

    ity ts, t neitongues,

    Rass, nor the sneers of sel?sh men,

    Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

    tercourse of daily life,

    S us, or disturb

    Our c all which we behold

    Is full of blessings. t the moon

    Sary walk;

    And let ty mountain winds be free

    to blo ter years,

    asies sured

    Into a sober pleasure, why mind

    Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

    thy memory be as a dwelling-place

    For all s sounds and hen,

    If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

    Sion,  s

    Of tender joy  thou remember me,

    And tations! Nor, perchance,

    If I should be, where I no more can hear

    tchese gleams

    Of past existence,  t

    t on tful stream

    e stood toget I, so long

    A worsure, her came,

    Un service: rather say

    ith far deeper zeal

    Of  t,

    t after many wanderings, many years

    Of absence, teep y cliffs,

    And toral landscape, o me

    More dear, bothy sake.

    [4] t affected by tides a few miles above

    tintern.

    [5] to an admirable line of

    Young, t expression of .

    END.