Puslapio vaizdai

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet-brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own

He is retired as noontide dew,

Or fountain in a noon-day grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth

Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie

Some random truths he can impart,

The harvest of a quiet eye

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That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

Come hither in thy hour of strength;

Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length;

Or build thy house upon this grave.


AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud - it has sung for

three years:

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

"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? she sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright columns of vapor through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

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

She looks, and her heart is in heaven; but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes!


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 two-fold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

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 school-boy 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 thou wert still a hope, a love Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!




AUGUST, 1802.


FAIR Star of evening, Splendor of the west,
Star of my Country! - on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem: and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.



'MID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;

If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed

The social hour of tenfold care

There will be need.

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,- and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

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