INQUIET Childhood here by special grace

Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no trace Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright) Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A nursling couch'd upon her mother's knee, Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.

H

ARK! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest,
By twilight premature of cloud and rain;
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain
Who carols thinking of his love and nest,
And seems, as more incited, still more blest.
Thanks; thou hast snapp'd a fire-side Prisoner's chain,
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain,

And in a moment charm'd my cares to rest.
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front the blast,
That we may sing together, if thou wilt,
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day,
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built
Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past,
Thrill'd by loose snatches of the social Lay.

COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR Dover,
ON THE DAY OF LANDING

H

ERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound

Of bells;-those boys who in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;-
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.

Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear Companion at my side.

MUTABILITY

F

ROM low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

WINTER

A

WRINKLED crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey As the long moss upon the apple tree; Blue-lipt, an ice drop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on the dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great arm'd chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night; Pausing at times to rouse the smouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.