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"Tis silent amid worldly toils,

And stifled soon by mental broils

But, in a bosom thus prepared,

Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,

"Twixt resignation and content.

;

Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,

By lone Saint Mary's silent lake;

Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,

Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;

Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink

At once upon

the level brink;

And just a trace of silver sand

Marks where the water meets the land.

Far in the mirror, bright and blue,

Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.

Yet even this nakedness has power,

And aids the feeling of the hour:

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,

Where living thing conceal'd might lie;

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,

Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;

There's nothing left to fancy's guess,

You see that all is loneliness:

And silence aids-though the steep hills

Send to the lake a thousand rills;

In summer tide, so soft they weep,

The sound but lulls the ear asleep;

Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,

Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid,
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.

If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life,

Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain's cell,

Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton long'd to spend his age.
"Twere sweet to mark the setting day,
On Bourhope's lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died,

On the broad lake, and mountain's side,

To say,

"Thus pleasures fade away;

"Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,

"And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey ;"Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower,

And think on Yarrow's faded Flower:

And when that mountain-sound I heard

Which bids us be for storm prepared,

The distant rustling of his wings,

As up his force the Tempest brings,

"Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,

To sit upon the Wizard's grave;

That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust

From company of holy dust;

On which no sun-beam ever shines

(So superstition's creed divines,)

Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,

Heave her broad billows to the shore;

And mark the wild swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,

And ever stoop again, to lave

Their bosoms on the surging wave:

Then, when against the driving hail

No longer might my plaid avail,

Back to my lonely home retire,

And light my lamp, and trim my fire;

There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,

And, in the bittern's distant shriek,

I heard unearthly voices speak,

And thought the Wizard Priest was come, To claim again his ancient home!

And bade my busy fancy range,

To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,
And smiled to think that I had fear'd.

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice;

And deem each hour, to musing given,

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Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease,

Such peaceful solitudes displease:

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