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Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light, the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth,

And felt that all was well.
The primrose for a veil had spread

The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,

A simple flower deceives.


HOPES, what are they? Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
What are Fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!
What is Glory?-in the socket
See how dying tapers fare!
What is Pride?-a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.

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Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the traveller's eye it shone:
He hath hailed it re-appearing
And as quickly it is gone;
Gone, as if for ever hidden;
Or misshapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.
What is Youth ?-a dancing billow,
Winds behind, and rocks before!
Age?-a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.
What is Peace ?-when pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing knell!

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth and evanescent,
No one knows by what device?
Such are thoughts !-A wind-swept meadow
Mimicking a troubled sea,
Such is life; and death a shadow
From the rock eternity!

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.
What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground.

If on windy days the raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff. Though the sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slumbers—by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet ostrich, till day closes Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the wanderer in my soul.

If this great world of joy and pain

Revolve in one sure track;
If Freedom, set, will rise again,

And Virtue, flown, come back;

Woe to the purblind crew who fill

The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill

To bear, and to forbear!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. SMALL service is true service while it lasts ;

Of friends, however humble, scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

Protects the lingering dew drop from the sun.


In these fair vales hath many a tree

At Wordsworth's suit been spared ;
And from the builder's hand this stone,
For some rude beauty of its own,

Was rescued by the bard :
So let it rest; and time will come

When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,

As one of the departed.

W. Brendon and Son, Printers, Plymouth.

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