POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. I. THERE WAS A BOY. THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. shout And they would Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Preeminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school; And, thro' that churchyard when my way has led A long half-hour together I have stood II. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, At once far off, and near. 1799. Though babbling only to the Vale, Thou bringest unto me a tale Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my schoolboy days *I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for thee ! III. A NIGHT PIECE. THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. But they are silent; — still they roll along Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, At length the Vision closes; and the mind, IV. AIREY-FORCE VALLEY, -Nor a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow dim cave, in seeming silence makes Of yon A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts. V. YEW-TREES. THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst |