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Now, not inaptly craved, commencing thus :
Beneath the twined arms of this stunted oak,

We'll pillow on the grass,

And fondly ruminate
O'er the disorder'd scenes of fields and woods,
Plough'd lands, thin travell’d by half hungry sheep;

Pastures track'd deep with cows,
Where small birds seek for seed.

Marking the cow boy-who so merry trills
His frequent unpremeditated song ;

Wooing the winds to pause

Till echo sings again,
As on, with plashy step and clouted shoon,
He roves, half indolent and self employ'd,

To rob the little birds
Of hips and pendent haws,

And sloes, dim cover'd, as with dewy veils,
And rambling brambleberries, pulp and sweet,

Arching their prickly trails

Half o'er the narrow lane;
And mark the hedger, front with stubborn face
The dank rude wind, that whistles thinly by,

His leathern garb, thorn-proof,
And cheeks red hot with toil !

Wild sorceress ! me thy restless mood delights
More than the stir of summer's crowded scenes ;

Where, giddy with the din,
Joy pall'd mine ear with song :

Heart sickening for the silence that is thine-
Not broken inharmoniously, as now

That lone and vagrant bee
Roams faint with weary chime.

The filtering winds, that winnow through the

woods In tremulous noise, now bid, at every breath,

Some sickly canker'd leaf

Let go its hold and die !
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,
In fitful gusts of anger carpeth loud ;

Thee urging to thine end,
Sore wept by troubled skies !

And yet, sublime in grief, thy thoughts delight
To shew me visions of more gorgeous dyes:

Haply forgetting now,

They but prepare thy shroud !
Thy pencil, dashing its excess of shades,
Improvident of waste, 'till every bough

Burns with thy mellow touch,
Disorderly divine !

Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream,
Droop faintly, and so sicken for thine end,

As sad the wind sinks low,

In dirges for their queen!
While in the moment of their weary pause,
To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark

Starts from his shielding clod,
Snatching sweet scraps of song!

Thy life is waning now, and silence tries
To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,

As stooping low she ben:ls,.

Forming with leaves thy grave!
To sleep inglorious there 'mid tangled woods,
Till parch-lip'd Summer pines in drought away-

Then from thine ivy'd trance
Awake to glories new.

Composed by the Seaside, October, 1817.


Oh! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,

Just after sunset or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please ;

Or yield the easily persuaded eyes.

To each quaint image issuing from the mould

Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low, And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks : and then, a traveller, go

From mount to mount, through CLOUDLAND,

gorgeous land ! Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward

light Beheld the ILIAD and the ODYSSEE Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea !



Like childhood making mirth of age,

In its unthinking levity,
So on these ruined walls the sun

Spends his meridian glee.
He idly jeers the desolate-

The chapel grey, and him who now Upon the ivy-stone reclines,

With wrinkled hand and brow. And yet I sin, perhaps-forgive,

Creator of the orb of day!
If I, an old and altered man,

Wax peevish with decay.
The time hath been, when all around

Woke joy, for all was light within ;
Even from this mourning pile a voice

Exclaims, such time hath been ! Be still, ye glossy beechen leaves !

Ye echoes of the broken hill,
Ye birds, and winds, and fretful waves,

A moment be ye still !
For I would breathe a quiet spell

That, as the prophet's prayer for rain, May pour new life into a heart

Long shrunk in every vein :
The spell is breathed-Oh, Memory!

Thy dreamy mantle wraps my frame : I see the vision of my youth

In all, save life, the same.

In her fast-ripening loveliness

I note a white-robed maiden shine, And faithful to her foot-print, one

Whose form and face were mine. 'Tis summer with the blue, blue sky,

With earth and with its flow'rets fair; 'Tis summer with the glancing lake,

And with that happy pair : They're roaming by the water side ;

They're seated in a fairy skiff,
And for a landing place they seek

The chapel on the cliff.
A light breeze courts the little sail,

A merry, wanton breeze, I trow;
It skips among the maiden's curls,

And lips her breast of snow.
An arm, afraid to press, just meets

Her heart, to still its throb of fear ; 'Tis not more flattered than thy own,

Thou timid mariner ! Among the lilies of the lake

The youth has moored the tiny skiff ;
The chapel greets the voyagers

Ascending the rude cliff.
He leans against the mossy arch

Which topples o'er the depths below!
Her hand restrains the willow branch

That waveth to and fro.
The wild rose blushes at his feet,

He culls the rarest of the bough,
And offers it with cheek as red,

And a half-murmured vow.

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