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20

THE IDEAL HERMITAGE.

THE IDEAL HERMITAGE.

METHINKS that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would gladly turn-to some dry nook
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook
Hurled down a mountain cove from stage to stage,
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;
Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool,
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage
Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl,
A maple dish, my furniture should be;

Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl
From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,
Tired of the world and all its industry.

W. Wordsworth.

RETIREMENT.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And by the beauties of the scene beguil'd,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,

And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Henry Kirke White.

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FOR A GROTTO.

FOR A GROTTO.

To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,
Were placed by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,
Primrose, and purple lychnis, decked the green
Before my threshold, and my shelving walls
With honeysuckle covered. Here at noon,
Lulled by the murmur of my rising fount,
I slumber. Here my clust'ring fruits I tend;
Or from my humid flow'rs at break of day
Fresh garlands weave; and chase from all my bounds
Each thing impure and noxious. Enter in,

O stranger! undismayed. Nor bat, nor toad
Here lurks; and if thy breast of blameless thought
Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread
My quiet mansion:-chiefly if thy name
Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.

Mark Akenside.

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

COME, pensive Sage, who lov'st to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell,
Where far from noise and riot rude,

Resides sequestered solitude.

Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes
The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill
Where, with printless footstep still,
The morning in her buskin grey
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,
And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest

The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear the floating clouds among
Her gale-transported matin song;
Or on the upland stile, embowered
With fragrant hawthorn snowy-flowered,
Will sauntering sit, and listen still,
To the herdsman's oaten quill

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ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifer's frequent low;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love.

Or when the noontide heats oppress,
We will seek the dark recess

Where, in the embowered translucent stream,
The cattle shun the sultry beam;
And o'er us, on the marge reclined,

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries dyed,

And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But, oh, when evening's virgin Queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,
We will seek the woody lane,

By the hamlet on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;
Or else, serenely silent, sit

By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast
Rears the old mossy arch impressed
That clasps its secret stream of glass,
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,
Unpressed by faun or sylvan's feet;
We'll watch in Eve's ethereal braid
The rich vermilion slowly fade;
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar,
The first glimpse of the eastern star.

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