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I.

THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye Cliff's
And Islands of Winander!—many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began
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
Pressed 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 shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced

That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

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, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
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 passed

At evening, I believe, that oftentimes

A long half-hour together I have stood

Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

II.

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice? .

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear!-
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!

I hear thee babbling to the Vale

Of sunshine and of flowers;

And unto me thou bring'st a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No Bird; but an invisible Thing,

A voice, a mystery.

The same whom in my School-boy days

I listen'd to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways;

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

III.

A NIGHT-PIECE.

THE sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller as he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split

Asunder, and above his head he sees

The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

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