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Tis Nor, I Here, Other Of the That
Which I, wherever thou art met,
“ But now proud thoughts are in your breastTo thee am owing ;
What grief is mine you see. Ao instinct call it, a blind sense;
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest A happy, genial influence,
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, Child of the Year! that round dost run
With which I, in my humble way, Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
Would deck you many a winter's day,
A happy Eglantine !"
What more he said I cannot tell.
The Torrent thundered down the dell
With unabating haste;
I listened, nor aught else could hear;
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLAN
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING
Feed Mad Ture Hur Flul Bou Litt Pre
WL LATE Frie
Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf," Exclaimed a thundering voice, “ Nor dare to trust thy foolish self Between me and my choice !" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. “ Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past; But, seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. “ Ah !” said the Briar,“ blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed What pleasure through my veins you spread! The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. “ When spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths, to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; And in my leaves- now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chaunted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none.
That way look, my infant, lo!
– But the kitten, how she starts,
'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Spreads with such a living grace
little Laura's face ; * Here, for neither babe nor me,
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Other playmate can I see.
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, of the countless living things,
That almost I could repine That with stir of feet and wings,
That your transports are not mine, 21. (In the sun or under shade,
That I do not wholly far: Upon bough or grassy blade)
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And with busy revellings,
And I will have my careless season Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Spite of melancholy reason, Made this orchard's narrow space,
Will walk through life in such a way And this vale so blithe a place;
That, when time brings on decay, da Multitudes are swept away
Now and then I may possess Never more to breathe the day:
Hours of perfect gladsomeness. Some are sleeping; some in bands
- Pleased by any random toy ; Travelled into distant lands;
By a kitten's busy joy, Others slunk to moor and wood,
Or an infant's laughing eye Far from human neighbourhood;
Sharing in the ecstasy ; And among the kinds that keep
I would fare like that or this, With us closer fellowship,
Find my wisdom in my bliss; With us openly abide,
Keep the sprightly soul awake, All have laid their mirth aside.
And have faculties to take, - Where is he that giddy sprite,
Even from things by sorrow wrought, Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Matter for a jocund thought; Who was blest as bird could be,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with life's falling leaf.
TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe new-comer! I have heard, Bound himself, and then unbound;
I hear thee and rejoice : Lithest, gaudiest harlequin !
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! Frisking, bleating merriment,
It seems to fill the whole air's space, When the year was in it's prime,
At once far off and near!
I hear thee babbling to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers; Save a little neighbouring rill,
But unto me thou bring'st a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! And the air is calm in vain;
Even yet thou art to me Vainly morning spreads the lure
No bird; but an invisible thing, Of a sky serene and pure ;
A voice, a mystery. Creature none can she decoy
The same whom in my school-boy days Into open sign of joy:
I listened to; that cry Is it that they have a fear
Which made me look a thousand ways, Of the dreary season near?
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ; In the impenetrable cell
And thou wert still a hope, a love; of the silent heart which Nature
Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain Such a light of gladness breaks,
And listen, till I do beget Pretty kitten! from thy freaks,
That golden time again.
so that it
Lie a sea Of tockor
Vrationis That hea And mo
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairy
O blessed bird! the earth we pace
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. Again appears to be
There was a roaring in the wind all night; An unsubstantial, faery place;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods;
The jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched
grass is bright with rain-drops ;-on the moors To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
The hare is running races in her mirth; And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
And with her feet she from the plashy earth Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun, Of vast circumference and gloom profound
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. This solitary tree! a living thing
I was a traveller then Produced too slowly ever to decay;
upon Of form and aspect too magnificent
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly; Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy! Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the migbt
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes
could name. May meet at noontide--Fear and trembling Hope,
I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton
And I bethought me of the playful hare: And Time the Shadow,—there to celebrate,
Even such a happy child of earth am l; As in a natural temple scattered o'er
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
Far from the world I walk, and from all care; United worship; or in mute repose
But there may come another day to meTo lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood; THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
As if all needful things would come unsought At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light ap
To genial faith, still rich in genial good; pears,
But how can he expect that others should
Em And Fros Hoc An
By our own spirits are we deified:
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; Wonder to all who do the same espy,
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the ponds where they abide.
« Once I could meet with them on every side; Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Amore than human weight upon his frame had cast.
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
While he was talking thus, the lonely place, Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,
The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse re
newed. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find
In that decrepid man so firm a mind.
“ God," said I, “ be my help and stay secure; “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
“ There is a thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;
And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Not five yards from the mountain path,
And wherefore does she cry :This thorn you on your left espy;
Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
“I cannot tell; I wish I could; Though but of compass small, and bare
For the true reasou no one knows: To thirsty suns, and parching air.
But if you'd gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes; And, close beside this aged thorn,
The heap that's like an infant's grave, There is a fresh and lovely sight,
The pond—and thorn, so old and gray; A beauteous heap, a hill of inoss,
Pass by her door—'tis seldom shutJust half a foot in height.
And, if you see her in her hut, All lovely colours there you see,
Then to the spot away! All colours that were ever seen;
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there."
“ But wherefore to the mountain-top And cups, the darlings of the eye,
Can this unhappy woman go, So deep is their vermilion dye.
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?" Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
“ 'Tis known, that twenty years are passed Of olive green and scarlet bright,
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Gave with a maiden's true good will Green, red, and pearly white.
Her company to Stephen Hill; This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
And she was blithe and gay, Which close beside the thorn you see,
While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved.
And they had fixed the wedding-day,
The morning that must wed them both; An infant's grave was half so fair.
But Stephen to another maid
Had sworn another oath; Now would you see this aged thorn,
And with this other maid to church This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
Unthinking Stephen wentYou must take care and choose your time
Poor Martha! on that woeful day The mountain when to cross.
A pang of pitiless dismay For oft there sits between the heap
Into her soul was sent; That's like an infant's grave in size,
A fire was kindled in her breast,
Which inight not burn itself to rest.
Hea The Ane Ins
They say, full six months after this,
Sad case for such a brain to hold