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Season of fancy and of hope,

Permit not for one hour
A blossom from thy crown to drop,

Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch

Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,

Part seen, imagined part!

A WREN'S NEST.

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,

Is none that with the little wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;

Still is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,

That to the kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,
The hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

These find, mid ivied abbey walls,
A canopy in some still nook;

Others are penthoused by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

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i days after, passing by
r light, the moss-built cell
I its shaded mouth,
t that all was well.

t for a veil had spread si of her upright leaves; itus, for purposes benign, ^Basple flower deceives.

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TIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND
IN A HERMITS CELL.

*es, what are they? Heads 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?
JnA pering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is Glory?—in tbe socket
See how dying tapers fare!
What is Pride?—a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.

What is Friendship ?—do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;

'Mamonds dart their brightest lustre

'rum a palsy-shaken head.

What is Truth?—a staff rejected;

'uty?—an unwelcome clog; Joy?—a moon by fits reflected 111 a swamp or watery bog;

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;

And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,

Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,

There is a better and a best; And, among fairest objects, some

Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out

The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge,

Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a primrose looked for aid

Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above

The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain

Can turn to little things, but once
Looked up for it in vain:

Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,

'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
Indignant at the wrong.

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.

INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND
IN A HERMIT'S CELL.

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 boll is shot!

What is Glory?—in the socket
See how dying tapers fare!
What is Pride?—a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.

What is Friendship?—do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she lias made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is Truth ?—a staff rejected;
Duty?—an unwelcome cloff;
Joy?—a moon by fits reflected
In a swamp or watery bog;

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