}

NUNs fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels :
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells :
In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

11.

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.

CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.

The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel

The officious touch that makes me droop again.

1

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the lake..

WELL may'st thou halt—and

gaze

with brightening eye!

The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the Abode ;-forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look ;
Intruders who would tear from Nature's book

This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.

Think what the Home must be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine:

Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touched, would melt away.

IV.

"BELOVED Vale!" I said," when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers

Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one."

But, when into the Valo I came, no fears
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost
I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fiolds so small!
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed ; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.