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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

FOK 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."

If this great world of joy and pain h 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.

INSCRIPTION

INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OF RYDAL MOUNT.

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.

and Son, Printers, Plymouth.

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