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


• Not half a furlong from that self same spring.

• But now! here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone::
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."

"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 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 he loves.

"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


"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. feels."

THERE was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye

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


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, while he 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 hangs

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

A profitable life: Some glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,

' And they were butterflies to wheel about

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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 yard

* 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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