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At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,'
A virgin scene!-A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
A temper, known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever,-and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with

crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,

Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.-
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

SHE was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;

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Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day;

Return, and sound the Horn, that we

May have a living House still left in thee '»

<< Fear not,» quickly answered Hubert; « As I am thy Father's son,

What thou askest, noble Brother,
With God's favour shall be done.»
So were both right well content:
From the Castle forth they went.
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.

Whence, then, could it come-the thought-
By what evil spirit brought?

Oh! can a brave Man wish to take

His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?

«Sir!» the Ruffians said to Hubert,

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Deep he lies in Jordan flood,»
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert-stood.
<< Take your earnings.»-Oh! that I
Could have seen my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
He has nothing now to dread.

But silent and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.

And while thus in open day

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was uttered from the Horn,

Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.

"Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!

He is come to claim his right:

Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown

He is helpless and alone :

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!

And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot;
And if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living Man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a Brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a Convent went to hide

His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from Murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:
And through ages, Heirs of Heirs,

A long posterity renowned,

Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.
A TRUE STORY.

OB! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle and flannel fine;
grey,
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell
you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltering village green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
'T was well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,
'T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,.
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise-he's all awake-
Again?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'T is Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, I've caught you then at last!»

Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm-
« God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!»>
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
'That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
Twas all in vain, a useless matter-
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
« Poor Harry Gill is very cold.»
A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, farmers all, I pray,

ye

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

I WANDERED lonely as a Cloud

That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee
A poet could not but be gay,

:

In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I he

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'T is 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 Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only 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 passed away from her eyes.

POWER OF MUSIC.

AN Orpheus! an Orpheus!—yes, Faith may grow bold,
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.

His station is there;-and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim-
Was aught ever heard like his Fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The
weary have life, aud the hungry have bliss ;
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So he, where he stands, is a centre of light;

It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he 's caught-and his time runs to

waste

The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret, And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he 's in the net!

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;-
If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees!

He stands, backed by the Wall ;-he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and
there!

The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band:

I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while
If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile.

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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.

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,

Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense

More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired

The Show-man chooses well his place, 't is Leicester's In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords

busy Square;

And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;

Calm, though impatient, is the Crowd; each stands ready with the fee,

Impatient till his moment comes—what an insight must

it be!

Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame,

A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to

shame ?

Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
That Eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought
On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
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
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent (Above the general roar of woods and crags)

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Distinctly heard from far-a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed)
The Hamadriad, 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
Seem to participate, the whilst they view
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads
Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,

That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF
BROTHER'S WATER.

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,

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