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That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made !"

And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,

He sang those witty rhymes
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

About the crazy old church clock,
The spring beneath the tree;

And the bewildered chimes.
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-liaired man of glee:

“ Down to the vale this water steers,
How merrily it goes!
"Twill murmur on a thousand years,

How richly glows the water's breast
And flow as now it flows.

Before us, tinged with evening hues,

While, facing thus the crimson west,
And here, on this delightful day,

The boat her silent course pursues !
I cannot choose but think

And see how dark the backward stream!
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay

A little moment past so smiling!
Beside this fountain's brink.

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

Some other loiterers beguiling.
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,

Such views the youthful bard allure;
For the same sound is in my ears

But, heedless of the following gloom,
Which in those days I heard.

He deems their colours shall endure

Till peace go with him to the tomb.
Thus fares it still in our decay:

- And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And yet the wiser mind

And what if he must die in sorrow!
Mouris less for what age takes away

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Than what it leaves behind.

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
With Nature never do they wage

o Thames! that other bards may see
A foolish strife; they see

As lovely visions by thy side
A happy youth, and their old age


fair river! come to me.
Is beautiful and free:

O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
But we are pressed by heavy laws;

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
And often, glad no more,

Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing.
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

Vain thoughtlYet be as now thou art,
If there is one who need bemoan

That in thy waters may be seen
His kindred laid in earth,

The image of a poet's heart,
The household hearts that were his own,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such as did once the poet bless,
It is the man of mirth.·

Who, murmuring here a later ditty,
My days, my friend, are almost gone,

Could find no refuge from distress
My life has been approved,

But in the milder grief of pity.
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

Now let us, as we float along,

For him suspend the dashing oar;
« Now both himself and me he wrongs,


that never child of song
The man who thus complains !

May know that poet's sorrows more.
I live and sing my idle songs

How calm! how still! the only sound,
Upon these happy plains,

The dripping of the oar suspended !
And, Matthew, for thy children dead

-The evening darkness gathers round
I'll be a son to thee!"

By virtue's holiest powers attended.
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
“ Alas! that cannot be.”

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;

The little hedge-row birds,
And through the wood we went;

That peck along the road, regard him not.

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He travels on, and in his face, his step,

My heart is at your festival, His gait, is one expression; every limb,

My head hath its coronal, His look and bending figure, all bespeak

The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. A man who does not move with pain, but moves

Oh evil day! if I were sullen With thought.—He is insensibly subdued

While the earth herself is adorning, To settled quiet: he is one by whom

This sweet May-morning; All effort seems forgotten; one to whom

And the children are pulling, Long patience hath such mild composure given,

On every side, That patience now doth seem a thing of which

In a thousand valleys far and wide, He hath no need. He is by nature led

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 791. To peace so perfect, that the young behold

And the babe leaps up on his mother's aro:With envy, what the old man hardly feels.

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

- But there's a tree, of many one,

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone:

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
The earth, and every common sight,

Where is it now, the glory and the drean?
To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
It is not now as it hath been of yore;-

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,
By night or day,

And cometh from afar;
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
The rainbow comes and goes,

From God, who is our home:
And lovely is the rose,

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
The moon doth with delight

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;

Upon the growing boy,
Waters on a starry night

But he beholds the light, and whence it for
Are beautiful and fair;

He sees it in his joy ; The sunshine is a glorious birth;

The youth, who daily farther from the east But yet I know, where'er I go,

Must travel, still is nature's priest, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And fade into the light of common day.
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief; Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And I again am strong.

And, even with something of a mother's mind, The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,

And no unworthy aim,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:

The homely nurse doth all she can
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, To make her foster-child, her inmate man,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

Forget the glories he hath known,
And all the earth is gay;

And that imperial palace whence he came.
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, Doth every beast keep holiday ;

A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
Thou child of joy

See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

(shepherd boy! With light upon him from bis father's eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life, Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; Ye to each other make; I see

A wedding or a festival, The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

A mourning or a funeral;

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And this hath now his heart,

Which, be they what they may,
And unto this he frames his song:

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Then will he fit his tongue

Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
But it will not be long

Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Ere this be thrown aside,

Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
And with new joy and pride

To perish never;
The little actor cons another part;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Filling from time to time his “humorous stage"

Nor man nor boy, With all the persons, down to palsied age,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy, l'hat life brings with her in her equipage;

Can utterly abolish or destroy!
As if his whole vocation

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Were endless imitation.

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither;
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Can in a moment travel thither,-
Thy soul's immensity;

And see the children sport upon the shore,
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!

And let the young lambs bound
On whom those truths do rest,

As to the tabor's sound!
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

We, in thought, will join your thirong, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Ye that pipe and ye that play, Thou, over whom thy immortality

Ye that through your hearts to-day Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,

Feel the gladness of the May! А presence which is not to be put by;

What though the radiance which was once so bright Thou little child, yet glorious in the might

Be now for ever taken from my sight, Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Though nothing can bring back the hour Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

We will grieve not, rather find Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?

Strength in what remains behind, Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,

In the primal sympathy And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Which having been must ever be, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,
O joy! that in our embers

In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Is something that doth live,

That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Think not of any severing of our loves!
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; For that which is most worthy to be blest;

I only have relinquished one delight Delight and liberty, the simple creed

To live beneath your more habitual sway. Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

Not for these I raise (breast:- The innocent brightness of a new-born day
The song of thanks and praise ;

Is lovely yet ;
But for those obstinate questionings

The clouds that gather round the setting sun Of sense and outward things,

Do take a sober colouring from an eye Fallings from us, vanishings;

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Blank misgivings of a creature

Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Moving about in worlds not realized,

Thanks to the human heart by which we live; High instincts, before which our mortal nature

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears; Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!

To me the meanest flower that blows can give But for those first affections,

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Those shadowy recollections,

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How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air,
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,

Breaks the serene of heaven:
In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths.

Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.

How beautiful is night!
Who at this untimely hour
Wanders o'er the desert sands ?

No station is in view,
Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste.

The mother and her child,
The widowed mother and the fatherless boy,

They at this untimely hour
Wander o'er the desert sands,

And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale

Scatters from jasmine bowers,

From yon rose wilderness, From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves, That with such perfumes fill the breeze,

As Peris to their Sister bear, When from the summit of some lofty tree She hangs encaged, the captive of the Dives.

They from their pinions shake
The sweetness of celestial flowers,

And, as her enemies impure
From that impervious poison far away
Fly groaning with the torment, she the while

Inhales her fragrant food. Such odours flow'd upon the world, When at Mohammed's nuptials, word

Went forth in Heaven, to roll

The everlasting gates of Paradise Back on their living hinges, that its gales Might visit all below; the general bliss

Thrill'd every bosom, and the family Of man, for once, partook one common joy.

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Where'er his eye could reach,
Fair structures, rainbow-hued, arose;
And rich pavilions through the opening woods
Gleam'd from their waving curtains sunny gold;
And winding through the verdant vale,

Flow'd streams of liquid light;
And Auted cypresses rear'd up

Their living obelisks ;
And broad-leav'd plane-trees in long colonades
O'er-arch'd delightful walks,

[vine Where round their trunks the thousand-tendril'd Wound up and hung the boughs with greener

And clusters not their own. [wreaths, Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes Return for rest? beside him teems the earth With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak’d; And here the lily hangs her head of snow;

And here amid her sable cup Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest star,

The solitary twinkler of the night;

And here the rose expands

Her paradise of leaves.
Then on his ear what sounds

Of harmony arose !
Far music and the distance-mellow'd song

From bowers of merriment;

The waterfall remote;
The murmuring of the leafy groves ;

The single nightingale
Perch'd in the rosier by, so richly ton'd,
That never from that most melodious bird,

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He heard not his own footsteps on the rock

The Bramin strikes the hour. That through the thick stagnation sent no sound. For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound How sweet it were, he thought.

Rolls through the stillness of departing day,
To feel the flowing wind!

Like thunder far away.
With what a thirst of joy
He should breathe in the open gales of Heaven !

Downward, and downward still, and still the way, O happy sire, and happy daughter!
The long, long, way is safe.

Ye on the banks of that celestial water Is there no secret wile,

Your resting place and sanctuary have found. No lurking enemy?

What! hath not then their mortal taint defil'd
His watchful eye is on the wall of rock,-

The sacred solitary ground?
And warily he marks the roof,

Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd
Avd warily survey'd

Receiving such a sire and child;
The path that lay before.

Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie, Downward, and downward still, and still the way,

Beheld them with benignant eye,
The long, long, way is safe;

And rippled round melodiously,
Rock only, the same light,

And roll'd her little waves to meet
The same dead atmosphere,

And welcome their beloved feet.
And solitude, and silence like the grave.

The gales of Swerga thither fled,
And heavenly odours there were shed

About, below, and overhead;

And Earth rejoicing in their tread,

Hath built them up a blooming bower, It was a living Image, by the art

Where every amaranthine flower Of magic hands, of flesh and bones compos'd,

Its deathless blossom interweaves And human blood, through veins and arteries

With bright and undecaying leaves. 'That flow'd with vital action. In the shape Of Eblis it was made;

Three happy beings are there here, Its stature such, and such its strength,

The sire, the maid, the Glendoveer;
As when among the Sons of God

A fourth approaches,—who is this
Pre-eminent, he rais'd his radiant head,

That enters in the Bower of Bliss ?
Prince of the Morning. On his brow

No form so fair might painter find A coronet of meteor flames,

Among the daughters of mankind; Flowing in points of light.

For death her beauties hath refin'd, Self-pois'd in air before him,

And unto her a form hath given Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the world

Framed of the elements of Heaven; On its diurnal axis; like the world

Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind. Chequer'd with sea and shore,

She stood and gaz'd on sire and child; The work of demon art.

Her tongue not yet hath power to speak, For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand

The tears were streaming down her cheek; Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm,

And when those tears her sight beguil'd, Earth felt the stroke, and ocean rose in storms,

And still her faultering accents fail'd, And ruining cities, shaken from their seat,

The Spirit, mute and motionless, Crush'd all their inhabitants.

Spread out her arms for the caress, His other arm was rais'd, and its spread palm

Made still and silent with excess Up-bore the ocean-weight,

Of love and painful happiness. Whose naked waters arch'd the sanctuary.

The maid that lovely form survey'd;

Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not; AN EASTERN EVENING.

But nature to her heart convey'd Evening comes on : arising from the stream,

A sudden thrill, a startling thought, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight;

A feeling many a year forgot, And wbere he sails athwart the setting beam,

Now like a dream anew recurring,
His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light.

As if again in every vein
The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night,

Her mother's milk was stirring.
Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day,

With straining neck and earnest eye To scare the winged plunderers from their prey,

She stretch'd her hands imploringly, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height,

As if she fain would have her nigh, Hath borne the sultry ray.

Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, Hark! at the Golden Palaces,

At once with love and awe opprest.

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