Since such, dear friend! is the delightful | Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail, Nor a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd, Though a breath might have mov'd it so lightly; Not a farewell-note from a sweet singing bird Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly. The sky was cloudless and calm, except And the evening-star, with its ray so clear, Its dewy, delightful splendour. And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill, With a landscape so lovely before me; And its spirit and tone, so serene and still, Seem'd silently gathering o'er me. Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd! An enclosure which care could not enter: And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleam'd On the solitary tomb in its centre! When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near, And in various lights have view'd it, With what differing forms, unto friendship dear, Has the magic of fancy endued it. A white spot on the emerald billow; Sometimes like a lamb in a low grassy vale, Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow. found Yet then, even then, when my young spirit|It is not a feeling of gloom or distress, But something that language can never express; Its own heaven within,and above, and around, 'Tis the essence of joy, and the lux'ry of woe, The bliss of the blest, faintly imag❜d below. For if ever to mortals sensations are given We gaze upon thee, thou magnificent Ocean. Though, while in these houses of clay we A sense of His greatness, whose might, and By the force of whose FIAT thy waters were Nor less, when our vision thy vastness would scan, In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's And our spirits would fain thy immensity rebound, span, In its white-drifted foam, and its dark- Does thy empire, which spreads from equaheaving green, tor to pole, Each moment I gaz'd some fresh beauty Prove how feeble and finite is human control. Flow on then, thou type of eternity! flow; | If on its stem, this leaf display'd In boyhood my heart in thy presence would | Beauty which sought no artful aid, ON HER SENDING ME THE LEAF OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN WORDSWORTH'S GARDEN. JOANNA! though I well can guess And raillery's enjoyment, Some minutes' light employment. Thou sentst it, in thy naughty wit, I own, as over it I pore, And further, without scandal, One sees 'twas never meant at all For vulgar clowns to handle. But in itself, for aught I see, Thus sever'd from the stem where first A fragment of the poet's lay, But 'tis not by one leaf alone, By parts, that critics may think fit THE QUAKER POET. VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF 80 DESIGNATED. THE Quaker Poet!-is such name If but the former-I, for one, But if such title would convey It is not splendour of costume The shallow brooks, in spring so gay, While the more deep but quiet streams, Flow on, in spite of scorching beams, And on their peaceful verge we see Is it the gayest of the gay, Who feel most sensibly the sway No!-hearts there be, the world deems cold. Of mine I speak not:-Hɛ, alone, But I contend the Quaker-creed, All that fair nature's charms display Of grandeur, or of beauty; All these are ours-The copious source And wouldst thou check their blameless course, Our lips in silence sealing? Nature, to all her ample page And thus the muse her gifts assigns, With no sectarian spirit; For AL the wreath of fame she twines Who fame and favour merit. Through every age, in every clime, Her favour'd sons have flourish'd ; Have felt her energy sublime, Her pure delights have nourish'd. From Lapland's snows, from Persia's bowers, Still true to nature be your aim, You with peculiar grace may claim And, with such you may blend no less, The god-like strength of gentleness, The blameless pride of purity, Chast'ning each soft emotion; And, from fanaticism free, Be such your powers:—and in the range For never can a poet's lays Obtain more genuine honor, Than whilst his GIFT promotes the praise Of HIM, who is its Donor! VERSES TO HER WHO IS JUSTLY ENTITLED TO THE IN childhood thy kindness has often caress'd me, Its memory is mix'd with my earliest days; It brighten'd my boyhood, in manhood it bless'd me, It thought not of thanks, and it pin'd not for praise. Can I,in thy evening, forget the mild bright ness Which beam'd in thy zenith,-which shines round thee still? No: ere I forget thee must memory be sightless, And the heart thou hast cherish'd death only can chill. Long, long since belov'd, now as warmly respected, To my fancy thou seemst like some timehonour'd tree; And the plant, which thy fostering shadow protected, Still looks up with filial fondness to thee. Dark storms passing over, perhaps may have sear'd thee, The moss of old age be thy livery now; But much still survives which has justly endear'd thee; Some greenness still graces each gently bent bough. May that sun, which must set, in descending enwreath thee With a mild pensive splendour no cloud can o'ercast; And all that has flourish'd around and beneath thee, Will preserve thy remembrance when sunset is past. A POSTSCRIPT. THY latest leaf is shed, Life's beaming sun hath set; Thou sleepst among the dead, But art remember'd yet. Not only to the last Did I look up, and love; But now, when all is past, Thought follows thee above. While life had aught to give That might seem bliss to thee, I wish'd that thou mightst live, Though parted far from me. But when existence here Could suffering but increase; All, all who held thee dear Desir'd thy soul's release. It came, and thou art free, Nor can I mourn the stroke, Although, in losing thee, Some sweetest ties are broke. Farewell! belov'd, rever'd; We part, but to be nearer; Though much thy life endear'd, Death seems to make thee dearer! TO THE WINDS. YE viewless Minstrels of the sky! Awful your power! when, by your might You heave the wild waves, crested white, Like mountains in your wrath; Ploughing between them valleys deep, Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep, Yawn like Death's opening path! Graceful your play! when, round the bower Still, thoughts like these are but of earth, Ye come! we know not whence! Though audible to sense. The Sun, his rise, and set we know; The Moon, her wax, and wane; Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things! Like Spirits in a dream; But one-to me, when Fancy stirs Who leave no path untrod; And when, as now, at midnight's hour, I hear your voice in all its power, It seems the VOICE OF GOD. SEA-SIDE-THOUGHTS. Beautiful, sublime, and glorious ; Epithet-exhausting Ocean! Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee, Yet attempt not to explore thee Whether morning's splendours steep thee Earth, her valleys, and her mountains, Scoff his search, and scorn his sway. Such art thou-stupendous Ocean! WINTER. THOU hast thy beauties: sterner ones, I own, By hurrying winds across the troubled sky; Thou hast thy decorations too: although |