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Since such, dear friend! is the delightful | Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail,

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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
In the west where the sun was descending;
And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept,
As his beams with their beauty were
blending.

And the evening-star, with its ray so clear,
So tremulous, soft, and tender,
Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its
sphere

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
By its winding banks was sweeping;
And just at the foot of the hill where I stood,
The dead in their damp graves were
sleeping.

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.

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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,
There was nothing more dear or delightful

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'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
As pledges of purer ones hoped for in heaven,
They are those which arise, when, with
humble devotion,

We gaze upon thee, thou magnificent Ocean.

Though, while in these houses of clay we
We but faintly can guess, and imperfectly tell
must dwell,
What the feelings of fetterless spirits may be;
They are surely like those which are waken'd
by thee.

A sense of His greatness, whose might, and
whose will
First gave thee existence, and governs thee
still;

By the force of whose FIAT thy waters were
made!
By the strength of whose arm thy proud
billows are stay'd!

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.

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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,

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ON HER SENDING ME THE LEAF OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN WORDSWORTH'S GARDEN.

JOANNA! though I well can guess
That in mirth's very idleness,

And raillery's enjoyment,
This leaf is sent; it shall not lose
Its errand, but afford the Muse

Some minutes' light employment.

Thou sentst it, in thy naughty wit,
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit
For a mere childish rhymer;
And I accept it, not as such,
But as indicative of much
Lovelier and far sublimer.

I own, as over it I pore,
It is a simple leaf, no more:

And further, without scandal,
It is so delicate and small,

One sees 'twas never meant at all For vulgar clowns to handle.

But in itself, for aught I see,
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be;
Nor can I doubt a minute,
That on the spot where first it grew,
It had each charm of shape, and hue,
And native sweetness in it.

Thus sever'd from the stem where first
To life and light its beauty burst-
It brings to recollection

A fragment of the poet's lay,
Torn from its native page away,
For critical dissection.

But 'tis not by one leaf alone,
The beauty of the flower is known;
Nor do I rank a poet

By parts, that critics may think fit
To quote, who, "redolent of wit,"
Take up his works to show it.

THE QUAKER POET.

VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF 80 DESIGNATED.

THE Quaker Poet!-is such name
A simple designation;—
Or one expressive of my shame,
And thy vituperation?

If but the former-I, for one,
Have no objection to it:
A name, as such, can startle none
Who rationally view it.

But if such title would convey
Contempt, or reprobation,
Allow me, briefly as I may,
To state my vindication.

It is not splendour of costume
That prompts harmonious numbers;-
The nightingale, of sober plame,
Sings, while the peacock slumbers.

The shallow brooks, in spring so gay,
In summer soonest fail us;
Their sparkling pride has pass'd away,
Their sounds no more regale us;

While the more deep but quiet streams,
By alders overshaded,

Flow on, in spite of scorching beams,
Their beauties uninvaded.

And on their peaceful verge we see
Green grass,
fresh flowers, and round
them
Hover the butterfly and bee,--
Rejoicing to have found them.

Is it the gayest of the gay,
The votaries of fashion,

Who feel most sensibly the sway
Of pure and genuine passion?

No!-hearts there be, the world deems cold.
As warm, as true, as tender
As those which gayer robes enfold,
However proud their splendour.

Of mine I speak not:-Hɛ, alone,
Who form'd, can truly know it;
Nor of my verse;-I frankly own
Myself no lofty poet.

But I contend the Quaker-creed,
By fair interpretation,
Has nothing in it to impede
Poetic aspiration:

All that fair nature's charms display

Of grandeur, or of beauty;
All that the human heart can sway,
Joy, grief, desire, or duty;—

All these are ours-The copious source
Of true poetic feeling:-

And wouldst thou check their blameless course,

Our lips in silence sealing?

Nature, to all her ample page
Impartially unfolding,
Prohibits neither saint, nor sage,
Its beauties from beholding.

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,
Their songs are still ascending;
Then, Quaker Poets, try your powers!
Why should you fear offending?

Still true to nature be your aim,
Abhorring affectation;

You with peculiar grace may claim
Each simpler decoration.

And, with such you may blend no less,
Spite of imputed weakness,

The god-like strength of gentleness,
The majesty of meekness!

The blameless pride of purity,

Chast'ning each soft emotion;

And, from fanaticism free,
The fervour of devotion!

Be such your powers:—and in the range
Of themes which they assign you,
Win wreaths you need not wish to change
For aught that fame could twine you.

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!
I marvel not, in times gone by
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied.

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
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreath,
And stir her silken hair.

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth :--

Ye come! we know not whence!
Ye go! can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight:

Though audible to sense.

The Sun, his rise, and set we know;
The Sea, we mark its ebb, and flow;

The Moon, her wax, and wane;
The Stars,-Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrant paths can tell;-
But You his search disdain.

Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things!
Who mock all our imaginings,

Like Spirits in a dream;
What epithet can words supply
Unto the Bard who takes such high
Unmanageable theme?

But one-to me, when Fancy stirs
My thoughts, ye seem HEAVEN'S MESSENGERS,

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 ;
Mild, majestic, foaming, free;—
Over time itself victorious,
Image of Eternity.

Epithet-exhausting Ocean!
'Twere as easy to control
In the storm thy billowy motion,
As thy wonders to unrol.

Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,
See thy surface ebb, and flow;

Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendours steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace;
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
"Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth, her valleys, and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;
Thy unfathomable fountains

Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.

Such art thou-stupendous Ocean!
But if overwhelm'd by thee,
Can we think without emotion
What must thy Creator be?

WINTER.

THOU hast thy beauties: sterner ones, I own,
Than those of thy precursors; yet to thee
Belong the charms of solemn majesty
And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone
Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are
blown

By hurrying winds across the troubled sky;
Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh
Through leafless boughs, with ivy over-
grown.

Thou hast thy decorations too: although
Thou art austere: thy studded mantle, gay
With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow
As erst Golconda's; and thy pure array
Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow
Envelopes nature; till her features seem
Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when we
dream.

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