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Keex fitful gusts are whispering here and there

Among the bushes, half leatless and dir;

The stars look very cold about the sky, And I liave many miles on foot to fare; Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on liigh, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair: For I am brimíull of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hairil Milton's eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.


To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven,- to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, wlien, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wary grass, and reads a debonair
And gerile tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the potes of Philomel, an eve
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E’en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.



A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: And where we think the truth least understood.

Oft may be found a “singleness of aim,"

That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause

Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly !
What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and malice to their native sty?
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold liiin in his country's eye.

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ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. Greit spirits now on earth are sojourning :

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyu's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake :
And lo! whose steadfastness would never take
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
And other spirits there are standing apart

Upon the forehead of the age to come;
These, these will give the world another heart,

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?-

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

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ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. The poetry of earth is never dead :

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the grasshopper's—he takes the lead

In summer luxury, he has never done

With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness lialf lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
December 30, 1816.


TO KOSCIUSKO. Good Kosciusko! thy great name alone

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;

It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
Of the wide spheres--an everiasting
And now it teils me, that in worlds unknown,

The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,

Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. It teils me too, that on a happy day,

When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Tiiy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore,

Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
To where the great God lives for evermore.


Happy is England! I could be content

To see no other verdure than its own;

To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment

For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worldling meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

Enough their siinple loveliness for me,
Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging :

Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,

And float with them about the summer waters.


Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man :
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close ; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

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Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly,

Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd liglit,

Hid in the fringes of vour eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see,

Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,

Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea : 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's clieek, and smiles against her smile.

O horrid dream ! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile :
He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath!


TC AllSA ROCK. HEARKEN, thou craggy ocean pyramid !

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams !

When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ! When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? How long is 't since the inighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ?

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sun-beams, Or when grey clouds are thy cold cover-lid ? Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep !

Thy life is but two dead eternitiesThe last in air, the former in the deep;

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skiesDrown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,

Another cannot wake thy giant size.

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