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MARK the concentred hazels that enclose

Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns:-and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof-amid embowering gloom
The very image framing of a tomb,

In which some ancient chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the mighty sleep:
For more than fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

TO THE POET, JOHN DYER.

BARD of the fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;

Nor hallowed less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,

By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lulled;"

Though hasty fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,

Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,

A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay

Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS YORKSHIRE.

DARK, and more dark, the shades of evening fell;
The wished-for point was reached-but late the hour
And little could we see of all that power

Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
The western sky did recompense us well
With Grecian temple, minaret and bower;
And, in one part, a minster with its tower
Substantially expressed-a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a gloricus pile
Did we behold, fair sights that might repay
All disappointment! and, as such the eye
Delighted in them; but we felt, the while,
We should forget them :-they are of the sky
And from our earthly memory fade away,

they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away.”

THESE words were uttered in a pensive mood,
Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable, and deserts me quite :
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
The grove, the sky-built temple, and the dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none find grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,

Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose loves dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

THE prayers

FROM THE SAME.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the Spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed:

Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may :
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind

By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.

FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

Heaven-born, the soul a heav'nward course must hold Beyond the visible world she soars to seek,

(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.'

THOUGH narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds, and monitory gleams

Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,

Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start-
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,
Doomed, with their impious lord, the flying hart
To chase for ever, on aërial grounds.

"WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind;
"Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays;
Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,
"A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days

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