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And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; - And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

IX.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE

COUNTRY.

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!

There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold,

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,

And treading among flowers of joy,

That at no season fade,

Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,

Shalt shew us how divine a thing

A Woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee when grey-hairs are nigh
A melancholy slave ;

But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

X.

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran ;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :

But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

XI.

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
'Tis said he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running Huntsman merry ;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry.

Worn out by hunting feats bereft

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By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty.

His Master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

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