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But who is He, with modest looks,
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,
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
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
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.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud - it has sung for
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
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,
TO THE CUCKOO.
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
While I am lying on the grass
Though babbling only to the Vale,
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;
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
COMPOSED BY THE
FAIR Star of evening, Splendor of the west,
TO THE SONS OF BURNS,
AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER.
'MID crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Through twilight shades of good and ill
And more than common strength and skill
If ye would give the better will
Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
The social hour of tenfold care
There will be need.
For honest men delight will take
And of your Father's name will make