HERE is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought Notice or name !-It quivers down the hill, Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year; But, faithful Emma! thou with we canst say That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, And flies their memory fast almost as they, The immortal Spirit of one happy day Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,
PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.
PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity.
OND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep! Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;- I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth : So do not let me wear to-night away : Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline— He found the longest summer day too short, To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank, and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!
'RIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care-a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend; And Love-a charmer's voice, that used to lend, More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse,-else troubled without end: Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously to soothe her aching breast; And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.
URPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep-buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind- But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss !—That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine :
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
HE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,
On 'coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay; How quickly, from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; Convinced that there, there only, she can lay Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring;
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.
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