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Tis Nor, I Here, Other Of the That

Which I, wherever thou art met,

“ But now proud thoughts are in your breastTo thee am owing ;

What grief is mine you see. Ao instinct call it, a blind sense;

Ah! would you think, even yet how blest A happy, genial influence,

Together we might be!
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Nor whither going.

Some ornaments to me are left

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, Child of the Year! that round dost run

With which I, in my humble way, Thy course, bold lover of the sun,

Would deck you many a winter's day,
And cheerful when the day's begun

A happy Eglantine !"
As morning leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;

What more he said I cannot tell.
Dear thou shalt be to future men

The Torrent thundered down the dell
As in old time ;-thou not in vain,

With unabating haste;
Art Nature's favourite.

I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The Briar quaked - and much I fear
Those accents were his last.

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Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf," Exclaimed a thundering voice, “ Nor dare to trust thy foolish self Between me and my choice !" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. “ Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past; But, seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. “ Ah !” said the Briar,“ blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed What pleasure through my veins you spread! The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. “ When spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths, to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; And in my leaves- now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chaunted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none.

If

That way look, my infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one-two-and three-
From the lofty elder-tree !
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly, one night think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy hither tending,-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.

– But the kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now — now one —
Now they stop; and there are none —
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a tiger-leap, half way,
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were hier antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd ?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure !

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'Tis a pretty baby-treat;

Spreads with such a living grace
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;

O'er
my

little Laura's face ; * Here, for neither babe nor me,

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Other playmate can I see.

Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, of the countless living things,

That almost I could repine That with stir of feet and wings,

That your transports are not mine, 21. (In the sun or under shade,

That I do not wholly far: Upon bough or grassy blade)

Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And with busy revellings,

And I will have my careless season Chirp and song, and murmurings,

Spite of melancholy reason, Made this orchard's narrow space,

Will walk through life in such a way And this vale so blithe a place;

That, when time brings on decay, da Multitudes are swept away

Now and then I may possess Never more to breathe the day:

Hours of perfect gladsomeness. Some are sleeping; some in bands

- Pleased by any random toy ; Travelled into distant lands;

By a kitten's busy joy, Others slunk to moor and wood,

Or an infant's laughing eye Far from human neighbourhood;

Sharing in the ecstasy ; And among the kinds that keep

I would fare like that or this, With us closer fellowship,

Find my wisdom in my bliss; With us openly abide,

Keep the sprightly soul awake, All have laid their mirth aside.

And have faculties to take, - Where is he that giddy sprite,

Even from things by sorrow wrought, Blue-cap, with his colours bright,

Matter for a jocund thought; Who was blest as bird could be,

Spite of care, and spite of grief,
Feeding in the apple-tree;

To gambol with life's falling leaf.
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung with head towards the ground,

TO THE CUCKOO.
Fluttered, perched, into a round

O blithe new-comer! I have heard, Bound himself, and then unbound;

I hear thee and rejoice : Lithest, gaudiest harlequin !

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Prettiest tumbler ever seen!

Or but a wandering voice ?
Light of heart and light of limb,
What is now become of him?

While I am lying on the grass,
Lambs, that through the mountains went

Thy loud note smites my ear! Frisking, bleating merriment,

It seems to fill the whole air's space, When the year was in it's prime,

At once far off and near!
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,

I hear thee babbling to the vale
If you listen, all is still,

Of sunshine and of flowers; Save a little neighbouring rill,

But unto me thou bring'st a tale
That from out the rocky ground

Of visionary hours.
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitters hill and plain,

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! And the air is calm in vain;

Even yet thou art to me Vainly morning spreads the lure

No bird; but an invisible thing, Of a sky serene and pure ;

A voice, a mystery. Creature none can she decoy

The same whom in my school-boy days Into open sign of joy:

I listened to; that cry Is it that they have a fear

Which made me look a thousand ways, Of the dreary season near?

In bush, and tree, and sky.
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

To seek thee did I often rove
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell

Through woods and on the green ; In the impenetrable cell

And thou wert still a hope, a love; of the silent heart which Nature

Still longed for, never seen!
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know

And I can listen to thee yet ;
Too sedate for outward show,

Can lie upon the plain Such a light of gladness breaks,

And listen, till I do beget Pretty kitten! from thy freaks,

That golden time again.

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Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
We poets in our youth begin in gladness; (ness
But thereof comes in the end despondency and mad.
When I with these untoward thoughts had striveo,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of Heaven
I saw a man before me unawares :

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairy

O blessed bird! the earth we pace

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. Again appears to be

There was a roaring in the wind all night; An unsubstantial, faery place;

The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
That is fit home for thee!

But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;

Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods;
YEW-TREES.

The jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched

The

grass is bright with rain-drops ;-on the moors To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

The hare is running races in her mirth; And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

And with her feet she from the plashy earth Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun, Of vast circumference and gloom profound

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. This solitary tree! a living thing

I was a traveller then Produced too slowly ever to decay;

upon Of form and aspect too magnificent

I saw the hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ;

The pleasant season did my heart employ:
Huge trunks!mand each particular trunk a growth

My old remembrances went from me wholly; Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy! Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the migbt
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks

Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
That threaten the prophane ;-a pillared shade, As high as we have mounted in delight
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, In our dejection do we sink as low,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged To me that morning did it happen so;
Perennially-beneath whose sable roof

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes

could name. May meet at noontide--Fear and trembling Hope,

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton

And I bethought me of the playful hare: And Time the Shadow,—there to celebrate,

Even such a happy child of earth am l; As in a natural temple scattered o'er

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

Far from the world I walk, and from all care; United worship; or in mute repose

But there may come another day to meTo lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,

As if life's business were a summer mood; THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

As if all needful things would come unsought At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light ap

To genial faith, still rich in genial good; pears,

(three years:
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it bas sung for
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven; but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade :
The stream will not flow and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

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But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at bis call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy

Em And Fros Hoc An

By our own spirits are we deified:

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Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; Couched on the bald top of an eminence;

And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Wonder to all who do the same espy,

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
By what means it could thither come, and whence; And mighty poets in their misery dead.
So that it seems a thing endued with sense : -Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf My question eagerly did I renew,
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; “ How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead,

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
Nor all asleep; in his extreme old age :

And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
His body was bent double, feet and head

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;

The waters of the ponds where they abide.
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage

« Once I could meet with them on every side; Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Amore than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,

The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,

About the weary moors continually,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood

Wandering about alone and silently.
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood,

While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call,
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

He, having made a pause, the same discourse re

newed. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
Upon the muddy water, which he conned

But stately in the main; and when he ended,
As if he had been reading in a book:

I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find
And now a stranger's privilege I took;

In that decrepid man so firm a mind.
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,

“ God," said I, “ be my help and stay secure; “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
A gentle answer did the old man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:

THE THORN.
And him with further words I thus bespake,
“What occupation do you there pursue ?

“ There is a thorn--it looks so old,
This is a lonesome place for one like you."

In truth, you'd find it hard to say
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise

How it could ever have been young,
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. It looks so old and gray.

Not higher than a two years' child
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,

It stands erect, this aged thorn;
But each in solemn order followed each,

No leaves it has, no thorny points;
With something of a lofty utterance drest;

It is a mass of knotted joints,
Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach

A wretched thing forlorn.
Of ordinary men; a stately speech ;

It stands erect, and like a stone
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,

With lichens it is overgrown.
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
He told me that he to this pond had come

With lichens to the very top,
To gather leeches, being old and poor:

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
Employment hazardous and wearisome!

A melancholy crop:
And he had many hardships to endure:

Up from the earth these mosses creep,
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;

And this poor thorn they clasp it round
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance:

So close, you'd say that they were bent
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

With plain and manifest intent

To drag it to the ground;
'The old man still stood talking by my side;

And all had joined in one endeavour
But now his voice to me was like a stream

To bury this poor thorn for ever.
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide ;
And the whole body of the man did seem

High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Where oft the stormy winter gale
Or like a man from some far region sent, (ment. Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
To give me human strength by strong admonish It sweeps from vale to vale ;

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Not five yards from the mountain path,

And wherefore does she cry :This thorn you on your left espy;

Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
And to the left, three yards beyond,

Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry;

“I cannot tell; I wish I could; Though but of compass small, and bare

For the true reasou no one knows: To thirsty suns, and parching air.

But if you'd gladly view the spot,

The spot to which she goes; And, close beside this aged thorn,

The heap that's like an infant's grave, There is a fresh and lovely sight,

The pond—and thorn, so old and gray; A beauteous heap, a hill of inoss,

Pass by her door—'tis seldom shutJust half a foot in height.

And, if you see her in her hut, All lovely colours there you see,

Then to the spot away! All colours that were ever seen;

I never heard of such as dare
And mossy net-work too is there,

Approach the spot when she is there."
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;

“ But wherefore to the mountain-top And cups, the darlings of the eye,

Can this unhappy woman go, So deep is their vermilion dye.

Whatever star is in the skies,

Whatever wind may blow?" Ah me! what lovely tints are there!

“ 'Tis known, that twenty years are passed Of olive green and scarlet bright,

Since she (her name is Martha Ray) In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

Gave with a maiden's true good will Green, red, and pearly white.

Her company to Stephen Hill; This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,

And she was blithe and gay, Which close beside the thorn you see,

While friends and kindred all approved
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

Of him whom tenderly she loved.
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be :

And they had fixed the wedding-day,
But never, never any where,

The morning that must wed them both; An infant's grave was half so fair.

But Stephen to another maid

Had sworn another oath; Now would you see this aged thorn,

And with this other maid to church This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,

Unthinking Stephen wentYou must take care and choose your time

Poor Martha! on that woeful day The mountain when to cross.

A pang of pitiless dismay For oft there sits between the heap

Into her soul was sent; That's like an infant's grave in size,

A fire was kindled in her breast,
And that same pond of which I spoke,

Which inight not burn itself to rest.
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
“ Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;
And there, beside the thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
“ Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
“ Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor woman go?
And why sits she beside the thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,

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They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go,
And there was often seen.
'Tis said, her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain ;
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often she was sober sad
From her exceeding pain.
O guilty father,--would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith!

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Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn infant wrought
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again :
And when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

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