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And yet it is a lingering joy

To watch a thing so fair,
To think that in our weary life

Such pleasant moments are

A little monarch thou art there,

And of a fairy realm, Without a foe to overthrow,

A care to overwhelm.

Thy world is in thy own glad will,

And in each fresh delight,
And in thy unused heart, which makes

Its own, its golden light.
With no misgivings in thy past,

Thy fulure with no fear:
The present circles thee around,

An angel's atmosphere.

How little is the happiness

That will content a child
A favourite dog, a sunny fruit,

A blossom growing wild.

A word will fill the little heart

With pleasure and with pride; It is a harsh, a cruel thing,

That such can be denied.

And yet how many weary hours

Those joyous creatures know; How much of sorrow and restraint

They to their elders owe!

How much they suffer from our faults:

How much from our mistakes; How often, too, mistaken zeal

An infant's misery makes!

We over-rule and over-teach,

We curb and we confine,
And put the heart to school too soon,

To learn our narrow line.

No, only taught by love to love,

Seems childhood's natural task;
Affection, gentleness, and hope,

Are all its brief years ask.
Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child,

With careless heart and eye;
Enjoy those few bright hours which now,

E'en now, are hurrying by:
And let the gazer on thy face

Grow glad with watching thee,
And better, kinder;-such at least
Its influence on me.


LINES. IMAGINATION; honourable aims; Free commune with the choir that cannot die; Science and song; delight in little things, The buoyant child surviving in the man; Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky, With all their voices— dare I accuse My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen, Or call my destiny niggard ? O no! no! It is her largeness, and her overflow, Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so? For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, But tim'rously beginning to rejoice Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.

Beloved! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
Then melts the bubble into idle air.
And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.
The mother, with anticipated glee
Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair
And flattning its round cheek upon her knee,
Looks up and doth its rosy lips prepare
To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
She hears her own voice with a new delight;
And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes

Then is she tenfold gladder than before!
But should disease or chance the darling take,
What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore
Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake?
Dear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee
Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee:
Why was I made for Love, and Love denied to me?"



A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn

Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep, Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,

Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep

With light Elysian :-for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remole,

Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene,

Most loved by evening and the dewy star, Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene!


Still, still unchanged may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and


THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. Trees, gracious trees; how rich a gift ye are,

Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings,

rise ? How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep,

Till gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep,

And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils; and lo! at once unfurld The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight

Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers

And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.

And ye are strong to shelter! all meek things,

All that need home and covert, love your shades: Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,

And stealthy violets, by the winds betray'd. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath

play'd With his first primrose-wealth; there Love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought,

And silent grief, of day's keen glance afraid, A refuge for his tears; and oft-times there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,

A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim; For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless


READING “PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD. O gentle story of the Indian Isle !

loved thee in my lonely childhood well, On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile

Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell

And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms,

And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell, And watch the Southern Cross through midnight

calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd

Thy vision of sweet love, kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves—a heavenly guest

With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's

To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.

Still that last look is solemn—though thy rays,

O Sun! to morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to Nature's heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half fearful: and in days

When Earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,

Told how the dying bade thy light farewell ;
O Sun of Greece! O glorious festal sun!
Lost, lost! for them thy golden hours were done,

And darkness lay before them. Happier far
Are we not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd.
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd,
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power

Your unworn pastoral images retain
O'er the true heart, which, in its childhood's hour,

Drank their pure freshness deep! The camel's train!
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain,

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