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As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
All their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;

While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper-ball,
Nor chides thee, on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.

Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless Puss,
The magic power to charm us thus?

Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?

MISS BAILLIE.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

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The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.

COLLINS.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequester'd nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion,
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May,
And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment;

A life, a presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too bless'd with any one to pair,
Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
A bird so like the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mock'd and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

WORDSWORTH.

TO MY CHILD.

THEY say thou art not fair to others' eyes,
Thou who dost seem so beautiful in mine!
The stranger coldly passes thee, nor asks
What name, what home, what parentage are thine;
But carelessly, as though it were by chance,
Bestows on thee an unadmiring glance.

Art thou not beautiful?-To me it seems
As though the blue veins in thy temples fair-
The crimson in thy full and innocent lips-
The light that falls upon thy shining hair-
The varying colour in thy rounded cheek-
Must all of nature's endless beauty speak!

The very pillow which thy head hath prest
Through the past night, a picture brings to me
Of rest so holy, calm, and exquisite,

That sweet tears rise at thought of it and thee;
And I repeat, beneath the morning's light,

The mother's lingering gaze, and long good night!

Yea, even thy shadow, as it slanting falls,
(When we two roam beneath the setting sun,)
Seems, as it glides along the path I tread,
A something bright and fair to gaze upon;
I press thy little eager hand the while,
And do not even turn to see thee smile!

Art thou not beautiful?—I hear thy voice-
Its musical shouts of childhood's sudden mirth-
And echo back thy laughter, as thy feet

Come gladly bounding o'er the damp spring-earth.
Yet no gaze follows thee but mine. I fear

Love hath bewitch'd mine eyes-my only dear!

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Beauty is that which dazzles-that which strikes-
That which doth paralyze the gazer's tongue,
Till he hath found some rapturous word of praise
To bear his proud and swelling thoughts along;
Sunbeams are beautiful-and gilded halls-
Wide terraces-and showery waterfalls.

Yet are there things which through the gazing eye
Reach the full soul, and thrill it into love,
Unworthy of those rapturous words of praise,
Yet prized, perchance, the brightest things above;
A nook that was our childhood's resting place-
A smile upon some dear familiar face.

And therefore did the discontented heart
Create that other word its thoughts to dress;
And what it could not say was beautiful,
Yet gain'd the dearer term of loveliness.
The loved are lovely-so art thou to me,
Child in whose face strange eyes no beauty see!

HON. MRS. NORTON.

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