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Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled :
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which “ did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is fairer far: He shrouds
His double-fronted head in higher clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.


Brook, whose society the Poet seeks
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If I some type of thee did wish to view,
Thee,--and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs;
It seerns the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a better good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.



Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be

enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the Abode-Oh! do not sigh,
As many do, repining while they look;
Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book
This blissful leaf with harsh impiety.
Think what the home would be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants !—Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the Porch which they entwine :
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched would melt, and melt away!


“ Beloved Vale!” I said, “ when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; I looked round, I shed no tears ;
Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was crost,
To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.
A Juggler's Balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.


METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
“ Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.”
I seemed to mount those steps ; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

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