There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest reposé,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best ;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out
The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
'The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things, but once Looked up for it in vain :

'Tis gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey,

Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light, the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth,
And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND
IN A HERMIT'S CELL.

HOPES, what are they? Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;

Or a spider's web adorning

In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are Fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary

Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is Glory ?-in the socket

See how dying tapers fare!

What is Pride?-a whizzing rocket

That would emulate a star.

What is Friendship?-do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is Truth ?-a staff rejected;
Duty?-an unwelcome clog;
Joy?-a moon by fits reflected
In a swamp or watery bog;

Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the traveller's eye it shone:
He hath hailed it re-appearing-
And as quickly it is gone;

Gone, as if for ever hidden;
Or misshapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.

What is Youth ?-a dancing billow,
Winds behind, and rocks before!
Age?-a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.

What is Peace?-when pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel,

Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing knell!

HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,

Bubbles gliding under ice,

Bodied forth and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are thoughts!-A wind-swept meadow

Mimicking a troubled sea,

Such is life; and death a shadow

From the rock eternity!

SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains

Roar down many a craggy steep,

Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground.

If on windy days the raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave,
Yet he slumbers--by the motion
Rocked of many a gentle wave.

The fleet ostrich, till day closes
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.

Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the wanderer in my soul.

"IF THIS GREAT WORLD." If this great world of joy and pain Revolve in one sure track;

If Freedom, set, will rise again,
And Virtue, flown, come back;

Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

SMALL service is true service while it lasts;
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew drop from the sun.

INSCRIPTION

INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE GROUNDS OF
RYDAL MOUNT.

IN these fair vales hath many a tree
At Wordsworth's suit been spared;
And from the builder's hand this stone,
For some rude beauty of its own,
Was rescued by the bard:
So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,
As one of the departed.

W. Brendon and Son, Printers, Plymouth.