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XV.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.

THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell

With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell

Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing

As this low structure, for

the

tasks of Spring. Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell

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Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell ;
And spreads in stedfast peace her brooding wing,
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-gleaming Nest, —a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow :
I gazed—and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!

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WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE COMPLETE ANGLER.".

WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live thy name, meek Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Infolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverent watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.

(), nobly versed in simple discipline—

Who found'st the longest summer day too short,
To thy loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,

Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook-
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,

Are cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree ;

And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every nook Of thy full bosom, gladsome Piety!

XVII.

TO THE POET, JÓHN ÞYER.

BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That Work a living landscape fair and bright ;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, 'deep embayed,'
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled;
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

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ON THE DETRACTION WHICH YOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.

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e Siltum Bunaet, beginning,' A Book was writ of late called " Tetract.ordən, ***

A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell ;
Not negligent the style ;—the matter?—good
As aught that song records of Robin Hood ;
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell ;-
But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,
Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.

Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,
Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Hood not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,

1 ift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

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GRIEF, 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 sooth her aching breast ;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

C

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