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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!
The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
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!
WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE
While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
To reverend watching of each still report 5
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
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!
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE
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
Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
end:. Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate i
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
Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORE-
With each recurrence of this glorious morn
Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
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!
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