To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde; –
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
Gigantic Mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial Station's western base,
Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
Far into silent regions blue and pale; —
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle

That, as we left the Plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak
Her habitable shores; but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the Spectator's feet. Yon azure Ridge,
is it a perishable cloud? Or, there
Do we behold the line of Erin's Coast?

⚫ Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland: its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in

Britain.

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene! -A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet, -or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played,
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. —
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook!
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.

Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch for there is a spirit in the woods.

A song in mockery and despite

Of shades, and dews, and silent Night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful Groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,

Yet to be come at by the breeze:

He did not cease; but cooed and cooed,
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith and inward glee;
That was the Song- the Song for me!

Hubert! though the blast be blown,
He is helpless and alone:

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!

And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak! astounded Hubert cannot;

And, if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.

'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living Man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,

And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a Convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from Murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:

And through ages, Heirs of Heirs,

A long posterity renowned,

Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.

Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling;
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltering village green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer carne,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,
"T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sid case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise-he's all awake
Again?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps - 'Tis Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"
Then Goody who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed,
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm—
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!"

The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

"Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 't is plain,
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold."

A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

I WANDERED lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Reside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Contirucus as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them dancel, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves i glee:-
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:

I gazed and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had bong

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;' And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.