COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY MORNING,

1838.

F with old love of you, dear Hills! I share
New love of many a rival image brought
From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought:
Nor art thou wronged, sweet May! when I compare
Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair,

So rich to me in favours. For my lot
Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot
To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air

Mingling with thy soft breath! That morning, too,
Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming

Amid the sunny, shadowy Coliseum;

Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue,
For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring,
Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum.

HOUGH the bold wings of Poesy affect

The clouds, and wheel around the mountain-tops
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops.
Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt,
Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect
The lingering dew-there steals along, or stops
Watching the least small bird that round her hops,
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect.

Her functions are they therefore less divine,
Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent
Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine,

Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present

One offering, kneel before her modest shrine
With brow in penitential sorrow bent!

ELION 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 nobler far; he shrouds

His double front among Atlantic clouds,

And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

TO SLEEP.

FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,

One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

'OND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

FOND

And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest Fancy culls or frames

When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!