MARK the concentred hazels that enclose

Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns:-and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof-amid embowering gloom
The very image framing of a tomb,

In which some ancient chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the mighty sleep:
For more than fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

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 childhood strayed
Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,

By green hills fenced, by 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.

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS YORKSHIRE.

DARK, and more dark, the shades of evening fell;
The wished-for point was reached--but late the hour
And little could we see of all that power

Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
The western sky did recompense us well
With Grecian temple, minaret and bower;
And, in one part, a minster with its tower
Substantially expressed-a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a gloricus pile
Did we behold, fair sights that might repay
All disappointment! and, as such the eye
Delighted in them; but we felt, the while,
We should forget them :-they are of the sky
And from our earthly memory fade away,

-"they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away."
THESE words were uttered in a pensive mood,
Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable, and deserts me quite:
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
The grove, the sky-built temple, and the dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and
pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,

Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose loves dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

FROM THE SAME.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the Spirit give by which I pray :

My unassisted heart is barren clay,

Which of its native self can nothing feed:

Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind

By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.

FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

Heaven-born, the soul a heav'nward course must hold Beyond the visible world she soars to seek,

(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
"Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

gives to airy nothin 9

A local habitation and a name."

THOUGH narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds, and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,

Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start-
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,
Doomed, with their impious lord, the flying hart
To chase for ever, on aërial grounds.

"WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; "Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays;

Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,

“A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days

Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more than reasoning mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays
Imagination is that sacred power,

Imagination lofty and refined:

"Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

TO THE RIVER DUDDON.

O MOUNTAIN Stream! the shepherd and his cot
Are privileg'd inmates of deep solitude.
Nor would the nicest anchorite exclude
A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
Of stationary sunshine: thou hast view'd
These only, Duddon! with their paths renew'd
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
Thee hath some awful spirit impell'd to leave,
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,

Though simple thy companions were and few:
And though this wilderness a passage cleave
Attended but by thy own voice, save when
The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue.

SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY.

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST 1802.
FAIR Star of Evening, splendour of the west,
Star, of my country! -on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the nations. Thou, I think,

Shouldest be my country's emblem; and shouldest wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I with many a fear
For my dear country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

CALAIS, AUGUST 1802.

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind,

Or what is it that ye go forth to see?

Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,

Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind

Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,

With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee

In France, before the new-born Majesty.

'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind!

A seemly reverence may be paid to power;

But that's a loyal virtue, never sown

In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown.
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
Shame on you, feeble heads to slavery prone!