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TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD.

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are
brought;
[apparel,
Who of thy words, dost make a mock
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born
carol;

Thou faery voyager! that dost float,
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky
Where earth and heaven do make one
imagery!

O blessed vision! happy child!
That art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

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In solitude, such intercourse was mine:

I thought of times when pain might be 'Twas mine among the fields both day and

thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality!
And grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.
Oh! too industrious folly !

Oh! vain and causeless melancholy !
Nature will either end thee quite ;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown

flocks.

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Thou art a dewdrop, which the morn brings
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks;
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth!
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;

night,

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We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,—the resounding
horn,
[hare.

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted Slips in a moment out of life.

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL
OBJECTS

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHEN-
ING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD

AND EARLY YOUTH.

So through the darkness and the cold we

flew,

And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the
stars,
[west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the

[This extract is reprinted from "The Friend."]
WISDOM and Spirit of the universe!
Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood did'st thou intertwine for me | Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed

Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay,-or sportively [throng, Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous To cut across the reflex of a star,

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still

The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled

With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

THE LONGEST DAY.

ADDRESSED TO

LET us quit the leafy arbour,
And the torrent murmuring by:
Sol has dropped into his harbour,
Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended
Is the longest of the year.

Laura! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free;
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
From the truths of homely reason,
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
I would urge this moral pleading,
Last forerunner of "Good night !"

Summer ebbs ;-each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,
Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of winter lię.

He who governs the creation, In his providence, assigned Such a gradual declination To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not ;-fruits redden,
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,
And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful maiden !
And when thy decline shall come,
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, Fix thine eyes upon the sea

That absorbs time, space, and number; Look towards eternity'

Follow thou the flowing river

On whose breast are thither borne
All deceived, and each deceiver,
Through the gates of night and morn ;

Through the year's successive portals; Through the bounds which many a star Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, When his light returns from far.

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Towards the mighty gulf of things,
And the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings:

Think, if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.

Duty, like a strict preceptor, Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown; Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, While thy brow youth's roses crown,

Grasp it,-if thou shrink and tremble,
Fairest damsel of the green,
Thou wilt lack the only syn.bol
That proclaims a genuine queen;

And insures those palms of honour
Which selected spirits wear,
Bending low before the donor,
Lord of heaven's unchanging year!

309

Poems Founded on the Affections.

THE BROTHERS.

'Twas one well known to him in former days,

A shepherd-lad;-who ere his sixteenth year

"THESE tourists, Heaven preserve us! Had left that calling, tempted to intrust

needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout
miles,

Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping son of idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?-In our church-
yard

His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters, with the mariners
A fellow-mariner,-and so had fared.
Through twenty seasons; but he had been
reared

Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard
heard

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees:-and when the regular
wind

Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through
days and weeks,

Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we Lengthening invisibly its weary line

tread

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Along the cloudless main, he, in those
hours

Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad green wave and
sparkling foam
[wrought
Flashed round him images and hues that
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains,--saw the forms of sheep
that grazed
[trees,
On verdant hills-with dwellings among
And shepherds clad in the same country
gray.
Which he himself had worn."

*

And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth

Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume'
The life he had lived there; both for the
sake

Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time

*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of "The Hurricane."

When, whether it blew foul or fair, they | And, after greetings interchanged, and

two

now,

Were brother shepherds on their native hills. They were the last of all their race: and [his heart When Leonard had approached his home, Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire

Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the church-yard he had turned aside;

That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added. He had found
Another grave, -near which a full half-hour
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there
*: grew

Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and he had hopes
That he had seen this heap of turf before-
That it was not another grave; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well
known to him:

And, oh, what joy the recollection now
Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes,"
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the
rocks,
Echanged.
And everlasting hills themselves were
By this the priest, who down the field had

come

Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb

Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path

Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday;

The happy man will creep about the fields,

Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles,
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead. Planted

thus

Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared, [with himself, The good man might have communed But that the stranger, who had left the grave, [once, Approached; he recognised the priest at

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And welcome gone, they are so like each They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral [months;

Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen
And yet, some changes must take place
among you;
[rocks,

And you, who dwell here, even among these
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years
and ten

We are not all that perish.I remeinber, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side-'tis gone and that dark cleft!

To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had!

is a friend

Priest. Nay, sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the sameLeonard. But, surely, yonderPriest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory [tall pike That does not play you false.-On that (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side,

As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other: the huge crag
Was rent with lightning-one hath dis-
appeared;

The other, left behind, is flowing still.
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them:-a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a
feast

Forfolks that wanderup and down like you,
To see an acre's breadth of that wide clift
One roaring cataract!-a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of
sheep

To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge[homes! A wood is felled:-and then for our own A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,

A daughter sent to service, a web spun,

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