AIL to the fields-with dwellings sprinkled o'er,

And one small hamlet, under a green hill

Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill! A glance suffices;-should we wish for more,

Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds roar
Through the stiff, lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash

The matted forests of Ontario's shore

By wasteful steel unsmitten- then would I
Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale,

Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by,

While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale,
Laugh with the generous household heartily
At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale!

HE struggling Rill insensibly is grown
Into a Brook of loud and stately march,
Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch;
And, for like use, lo! what might seem a zone
Chosen for ornament-stone matched with stone

In studied symmetry, with interspace

For the clear waters to pursue their race

Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown,

Succeeding still succeeding! Here the Child

Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild, His budding courage to the proof; and here

Declining Manhood learns to note the sly

And sure encroachments of infirmity,

Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near!

HENCE that low voice?-A whisper from the heart, That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, Once more, beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light; And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall

Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory;

Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free
As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall
On gales that breathe too gently to recall
Aught of the fading year's inclemency!

I

THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being passed away.-Vain sympathies!

For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;

Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide;

The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish;-be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour;

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.