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For thou art with me here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend,
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. O! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life to lead,
From joy to joy; for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk!
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee; and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; 01 then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service; rather say
With warmer love, O! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty clips,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

296. To A SKYLARK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds !

For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringirg,

Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There's madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a Traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain River
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
1, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done

297. PORTRAIT.
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair.

But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her, upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller 'twixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

298. MILTON. Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;

England hath need of thee; she is a fen

Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

O! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens - majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

299. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple child, dear brother Jim,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl;

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair-

Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said,

And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.
“Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them, with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,

“Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five.”
• Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,
Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem,
And there upon the ground I sit-

I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.
" The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid;

And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played -
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go -

And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,

“If they two are in heaven?”. The little maiden did reply,

“O master! we are seven."

“But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!”
'Twas throwing words away; for still,
The little maid would have her will
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

300. CRITICISM OF Pou rry. With the young of both sexes, poetry is, like love, a passion; but, for much the greater part of those who have been proud of its power over their minds, a necessity soon arises of breaking the pleasing bondage; or it relaxes of itself; the thoughts being occupied in domestic cares, or the time engrossed by business. Poetry then bea comes only an occasional recreation; while to those whose existence passes away in a course of fashionable pleasure, it is a species of luxurious amusement. In middle and declining age, a scattered number of serious persons resort to poetry, as to religion, for a protection against the pressure of trivial employments, and as a consolation for the afflictions of wife. And, lastly, there are many, who, having been

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