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POWER OF MUSIC.

Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:

AN Orpheus! an Orpheus!—yes, Faith may grow They are deaf to your murmurs-they care Lot for bold,

you,

Nor what ye are flying, nor what you pursue!

And take to herself all the wonders of old; -
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

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That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

STAR-GAZERS.

WHAT crowd is this? what have we here? we must
not pass it by;

A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a Barber's Pole, or Mast of little Boat,
Some little Pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's
waters float.

That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!
That Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.

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Or must we be constrained to think that these Specta
tors rude,

Mark that Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
Tower
Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore
prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be-Men thirst for power and
majesty!

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful | Seem to participate, the whilst they view
mind employ
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads

Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!

joy,

That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,

Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry and pore

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:

One after One they take their turn, nor have I one

espied⚫

That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

THE HAUNTED TREE.

ΤΟ

THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun
His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less
To overshade than multiply his beams

By soft reflection-grateful to the sky,

To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense

Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy

More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use

Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
That Eastern Su tan, amid flowers enwrought
On silken tissue might diffuse his limbs

In languor; or, by Nature, for repose

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Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied by the chase.
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,
Approach—and, thus invited, crown with rest
The noon-tide hour: - though truly some there are
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid
This venerable Tree; for, when the wind
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound
(Above the general roar of woods and crags)
Distinctly heard from far—a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed)
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong.. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost
Haunts this old Trunk; lamenting deeds of which
The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;

Not even a zephyr stirs ;- the obnoxious Tree
Is mute, and, in his silence would look down,
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,
On thy reclining form with more delight
Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale

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And to my heart is still endeared
The faith with which it then was cheered;
The faith which saw that gladsome pair
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.
Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive,
Kind Spirits! may we not believe
That they, so happy and so fair,
Through your sweet influence and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of deadly injury?
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom!

RUTH.

WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted Child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a Pipe of straw,
And from that oaten Pipe could draw
All sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her Father's root, alone

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to Woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore

A military Casque he wore,

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought then from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: Ah no! he spake the English tongue,

And bore a Soldier's name;

And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek

In finest tones the Youth could speak: - While he was yet a Boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run, Had been is dearest joy.

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*Magnolia grandiflora.

†The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.

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