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Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurelled War and plumy State;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness—

Pernicious Tales! insidious Strains!
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,

The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be

The doom of Ignorance and Penury! But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child, You hailed the chapel and the Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?

You were a Mother! That most holy name,
Which Heaven and Nature bless,
I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose Infants owe them less

Than the poor Caterpillar owes
Its gaudy Parent Fly.

You were a Mother! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
A second time to be a Mother,

Without the Mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones

O'er the growing Sense to roll,

The Mother of your infant's Soul !
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,

All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,
A moment turned his awful face away;
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet
New influences in your being rose,

Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet

With living Nature, in her joys and woes!
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty!

O beautiful! O Nature's child!

'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;

For oh dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,

Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,
Thy spirit rests! SATIETY

And SLOTH, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worlding. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope,

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through the accustomed mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat

Will build me up a mossy seat

And when the gust of Autumn crowds

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,

To thee I dedicate the whole !

And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

The present works of present man

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

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