ROOK! 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 waterbreaks;
If wish were mine some type of thee to view,
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be-
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs:
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.

ETHINKS that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would rather turn-to some dry nook
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage,
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;
Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool,
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage
Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl,
A maple dish, my furniture should be;
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl
From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,
Tired of the world and all its industry.

HERE is a little unpretending Rill

Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name!-It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they,
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF

IN "THE COMPLETE ANGLER."

W

HILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.

Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,

He found the longest summer day too short,

To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,

Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook

Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,

The cowslip bank and shady willow-tree;

And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every nook

Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

To think that now our life is only drest

For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

Or groom!-We must run glittering like a brook

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:

The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book.
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.