"But we are pressed by heavy laws;

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved,

And many love me ; but by none

Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains,

"And, Matthew, for thy Children dead I'll be a son to thee!"

At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went ;

And, ere we came to Leonard's-rock,

He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,

And the bewildered chimes.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

ART thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome !-but lay thy sword asidé,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
That abject thing, thy soul, away!

A Moralist perchance appears;

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove :
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart ;—
The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

-Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave!

LINES

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up

With which she speaks when storms are gone;

A mighty Unison of streams!

Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale ;-this inland Depth

In peace is roaring like the Sea;

Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load !1
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad-
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss ;
But when the Mighty pass away
What is it more than this,

That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?

Such ebb and flow must ever be,

Then wherefore should we mourn?

1 Importuna e grave salma.-MICHAEL Angelo.