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For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,
Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can


The man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love!. if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from nie, gentle Love, nor let ine walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such Happiness as I have known to-day,


AT the corner of Woodstreet, when day-light

appears, There's a Thrush that sings lond, it has sung

for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd 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


Green pastures she views in the midst of the

dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her

pail, And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The only one 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 pass'd away from her


Poor Outcast! return to receive thee once

more The house of thy Father will open its door, And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, May'st hear the Thrush sing from a tree of its


INSCRIPTION For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on

St. Herbert's Island, Derwent Water.

IF thou in the dear love of some one friend Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what

thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.-St. Herbert hither came, And here, for many seasons, from the world Remov’d, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude. He living here, This island's sole inhabitant! had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd As his own soul; and when within his cave Alone he knelt before the Crucifix, While o’er the lake the cataract of Lodore Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he:-as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour.


For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island

at Grasmere.

RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain’d
Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd
To somewhat of a closer fellowship
With the ideal grace. Yet as it is
Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvious of our village, had no help
From the great city; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw display'd
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed, and Her-

It is a homely pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the



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