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While riding near her home one st onu y night
Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,
When to the dwelling of my Love I cnme,
The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the Tree:
I led my Lucy to the spot: Look here!
Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!
Characteristic Of A Favourite Dog, Which Belonged To A Friend Of The Author.
On his morning-rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture.
Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath Comrades in his walk;
Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent and two for speed.
See, a Hare before him started!
— Off they fly in earnest cha.ee;
Every Dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race!
And the Hare whom they pursue
Hath an instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
Deep the River was, and crusted
Better fate have Prince and Swallow—
She hath neither wish nor heart.
From the brink her paws she stretches.
TO THB .MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG.
Lie here sequestered:—be this little mound
raise: More thou deserv'st; but this Man gives to
Man, Brother to Brother, this is all we can. Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee
dear Shall find thee through all changes of the
year: This Oak points out thy grave; the silent
I prayed for thee, and that thy end were
past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hiidst lived, till every thing that
cheers In tbee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away. And left thee but a glimmering of the Hay; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy
knees,— I saw thee stagger in the summer-breeze. Too weak to stand against its sportive breath. And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears w ere
shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou
wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that wore. Old household-thoughts, in which thou hudst
thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to
thee. Found scarcely any where in like degree!
For love, that comes to all; the holy tense,
A Barking sound the Shepherd hears,
The Dog is not of mountain-breed;
Its motions, ton, are wild and shy;
With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in Hollow or on Height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the Creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Hclvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.
There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recalled the Name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day
On which the Traveller passed this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable Talc I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry.
This Dog had been through three months'
space A Dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that since the day
ODE TO DUTY.
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calmstthe weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Serene will be our days and bright,
I, loving freedom, and untried;
Though no disturbance of my soul.
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought,
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires •,
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
To humbler functions, awful Power!
THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
A long blue liveTy-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
Full five-and-twenty years he lived
A running Huntsman merry;
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To Bay the least, four Counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His Master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, Dogs, and Horses, all arc dead;
He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His dwindled body's half awry;
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the race was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can do between them.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Few months of life hog he in store,
My gentle Deader, I perceive How patiently you've waited. And I'm afraid that you expect Some talc will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind
0 gentle Reader! you would find
What more I have to say is short,
1 hope you'll kindly take it:
It is no tale; hut, should you think,
One summer-day I chanced to sec
You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool,—to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
1 struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor Old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY-VALE.
"Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of
mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.
He dwells in the centre of London's wide
Town,' His staff is a sceptre—his gray hairs a crown; Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the
streak, Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.
'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn—
'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when
a boy; There fashioned that countenance, which, in
spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the lost will
A Farmer he was ; and his house far and near Was the boast of the Country for excellent
cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury-Yale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt
his good ale.
Yet Adam was for as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master
was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and
lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he.
Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,—
The fields better suited the ease of his soul:
He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.
For Adam was simple in thought, and tho
Poor Familiar with him made an inn of his door; He gave them the best that he had; or to say What less may mislead you, they took it
Thus thirty smooth years did he drive on his farm;
The genius of plenty preserved him from harm:
At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,
His means are run out,—he must beg or must borrow.
To the neighbours he went—all were frco with their money;
For his hive had so long been replenished with honey
That they dreamt not of dearth—He continued his rounds,
Knocked here and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.
He paid what he could of his ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for
himself: Then, (what is too true) without hinting a
word, Turned his back on the Country; and off
like a Bird.
You lift up your eyes!—and I guess that you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;
In him it was scarcely a business of art,
For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London—a sad emigration I ween— With Ills gray hairs he went from the brook
and the green; And there, with small wealth hut his legs
and his hands, As lonely he stood as a Crow on the sands.
All trades, as needs was, did old Adam assume,—
Served as Stable-boy, Errnnd-boy, Porter, and Groom;
But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,
He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is stout;
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;
You would say that each hair of his beard v as alive,
And his fingers arc busy as bees in a hive.
For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely
goes About work that he knows in a track that
he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body
In the throng of the Town like a Stranger
is he. Like one whose own Country's far over the
sea, And Nature, while through the great City
he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by
This gives him the fancy of one that is
young, More of soul in his face than of words on
his tongue; Like a Maiden of twenty he trembles and
sighs, And tears of fifteen have come into his eyes.
What's a tempest to him or the dry parching
heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over
the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will
stand You might think he'd twelve Reapers at
work in the Strand.
Where proud Covent- garden, in desolate
hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits
and her flowers,
Old Adam will smile nt the pains that have made
Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade.
'Mid coaches and chariots, a Waggon of
Straw Like a magnet the heart of old Adam can
draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory
will teem. And his hearing is touched with the sounds
of a dream.
Up the Hny-markct-hill he oft whistles hia
way, Thrusts his hands in the Waggon, and smells
at the hay: He thinks of the fields he so often hath
mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his
But chiefly to Smithficld he loves to
repair— If yon pass by at morning you'll meet with
him there; The breath of the Cows you may sec him
inhale. And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury
Now farewell, old Adam, when low thou
art laid May one blade of grass spring up over thy
head; And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever
it be. Will bear the wind sigh through the leaves
of a tree.
FOB, THK SPOT WHEHB THK HFRMITICF STOO>
Tins Island, guarded from profane ap-
Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones