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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 yewtree 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 hy 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, 5

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, 10

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

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

1811. (?)

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 Boy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; But some (who brook those hackneyed themes

full well, 5

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their

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

brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fel1. Heed not, wild Bover once through heath and

glen, 9

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;
AndLove—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 i
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. (?)

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, 5

When twilight shades darken the mountain's

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

protect 10

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. (?)

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! 10

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 Eeason's scales!

1819. (?)

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,
A nd 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. (?)

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