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So do not let me wear to-night away: 11 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

1806. (?)

XV.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring 5 Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell; And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding

wing. Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew

tree bough, And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown 10 Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : I gazed—and, self-accused while gazing, sighed For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!

1819. (?)

XVI.

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN “THE

COMPLETE ANGLER.” WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverend watching of each still report 5
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline-
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford
brook-

10
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads—where flowed, from every

nook

Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

1819. (?)

XVII.

TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made That work a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical delight Than those soft scenes through which thy child.

hood strayed, Those southern tracts of Cambria, “deep

embayed, With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur

lulled;" Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and

still, A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall

stray O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

1811. (?)

10

XVIII.

ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE

PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, “A Book was writ

of late called Tetrachordon.'" A Book came forth of late, called PETER BELL; Not negligent the style;—the matter?-good As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; But some (who brook those hackneyed themes

full well, Nor heat, at Tam o’Shanter's name, their

blood) Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy

brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and

glen, Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

1820.

XIX. GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute; And Care-a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend; And Love--a charmer's voice, that used to lend, 5 More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse—else troubled without

end: Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest

From her own overflow, what power sedate 10
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously—to soothe her aching breast;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

1819. (?)

xx.

TO S. H. Excuse is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust

o'erspread; My nerves from no such murmur shrink,-tho'

near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades darken the mountain's

head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Might smile on work, 0 Lady, once so dear To household virtues. Venerable Art. Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven

protect Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, Trusting to crowded factory and mart And proud discoveries of the intellect, Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.

1827. (?)

IO

XXI.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORE

LAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.
With each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, 5
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! O green

dales !
Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your

own; And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales !

1819. (?)

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XXII.

DECAY OF PIETY. OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my

cheek, Matrons and Sires-who, punctual to the call Of their loved Church, on fast or festival Through the long year the House of Prayer

would seek: By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 5 Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, But with one fervour of devotion meek. I see the places where they once were known, And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, 10 Is ancient Piety for ever flown? Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds That, struggling through the western sky, have

won Their pensive light from a departed sun!

1827. (3)

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