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Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,
Forgetful of his origin, and worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream,
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes th' inverted image of the sky
For heav'n itself, and sinking meets his fate.

Now, let me trace the stream up to its source
Among the hills: its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn-spray,-
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount

Into the open air: grateful the breeze

That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view! But O! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing

thought, That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons Of toil, partake this day the common joy Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale, Of breathing in the silence of the woods, And blessing him who gave the Sabbath day. Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb, To think that now the townsman wanders forth (1) Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy The coolness of the day's decline, to see His children sport around, and simply pull The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.

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Again I turn me to the hill, and trace The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern'd, Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, And thinly strew'd with heath-bells up and down.

Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are trac'd Upon the adverse slope, where si.alks gigantic The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm, As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel dry, Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But hark a plaintive sound floating along! 'Tis from yon heath-roof'd shielin; now it dies Away, now rises full; it is the song Which He,—who listens to the halleluiahs

Of choiring Seraphim—delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age,—of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door: Behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the sinooth-cropt sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight;
While, heedless at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

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W Hen homeward bands their sev'ral ways dis-
perse,
I love to linger in the narrow field
Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the wither'd grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,

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