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. In April here, beneath the scented thornt, • He heard the birds their morning carols sing, . And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was.

born • Not half a furlong from that self same spring.

• But now! here's neither grass nor pleasant

shade; 6. The sun on drearier hollow never shone: • So will it be, as I have often said, « Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all até !


" Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spokeni

well; Small difference lies between thy creed and

mine; This Beast not unobserv’d. by Nature fell, “ His death was mourn?d by sympathy divine.

“ The Being that is in the clouds and air, “ That is in the green leaves among the groves, “ Maintains a deep and reverential care - For them, the quiet creatures, whom heloves.

“ The Pleasure-house is dust, behind, before! “ This is no common waste, no common.

gloom; " But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

“ She leaves these objects to a slow decay, “ That what we are, and have been, may be

known; “ But, at the coming of the milder day, “ These monuments shall all be overgrown.

“ One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, “ Taught both by what she shews, and what

conceals; “ Never to blend our Pleasure or our Pride. “ With Sorrow of the meanest thing that.


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THERE was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye

Cliffs And Islands of Winander! many a time, At evening, when the stars had just begun To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake, And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent Owls That they might answer him. And they would

shout Across the wat'ry vale and shout again Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene Of mirth and jocund din. And when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, whilehe hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all, its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
The vale where he was born; the Church-yard

Upon a slope above the village school,
And there along that bank when I have pass'd
At Evening, I believe, that near his grave
A full half-hour together I have stood
Mute--for he died when he was ten years old.

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THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live

i Loki • A profitable life: Some glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, . And they were butterflies to wheel about

Long as their summer lasted; some, as wise, • Upon the forehead of a jutting crag • Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their

knee, • And look and scribble, scribble on and look,

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, • Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. • But for that moping son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our Church


* This Poem was intended to be the concluding Poem of a series of Pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologize for the abruptness with which the Poem begins.

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