And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own,

I've a mighty part within That the world hath never seen, Rich as Eden's happy ground, And with choicer plenty crown'd, Here, on all the shining boughs, Knowledge fair and useful grows; On the same young flow'ry tree, All the seasons you may see; Notions in the bloom of light, Just disclosing to the sight: Here are thoughts of larger growth, Rip'ning into solid truth:

Fruits refin'd of noble taste; Seraphs feed on such repast. Here, in green and shady grove, Streams of pleasure mix with love; There, beneath the smiling skies, Hills of contemplation rise: Now, upon some shining top, Angels light, and call me up; I rejoice to raise my feet, Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul;

T

'Tis a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its owił,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis and brighter far
Than the golden Indies are:
Ships that trace the wat'ry stage,
Cannot coast it in an age;

Harts or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand days and more.

Yet the silly wand'ring mind, Loth to be too much confin'd Roves and takes her daily tours, Coasting round the narrow shores, Narrow shores of flesh and sense, Picking shells and pebbles thence; Or she sits at fancy's door, Calling shapes and shadows to her, Foreign visits still receiving, And t' herself a stranger living. Never, never would she buy Indian dust or Tyrian dye, Never trade abroad for more, If she saw her native store, If her inward worth were known, She might ever live alone.

LETTER TO MISS S.

From the Vicinity of Windermere.

The mild shades of eve soothe the passions to rest, And the breezes are bush'd upon Windermere's

breast;

The blackbird's sweet melody trills thro' the grove,
And cuckoo's response joins the warbling of love:
Tis nature's repose, or night's stillness refin'd,

Not a leaf, or a blossom is wav'd by the wind;
Inspiring tranquility broods o'er the lake,
While friendship's delightful sensations awake.
To you, my dear girl, does this ev'ning belong :
Affection breathes forth the effusions of song.

The wild scenes of Keswick this morning I view'd, Rocks, mountains, and torrents, majestic and rude; Where glens, deep embosom'd, resound with the

roar

Of Barrow responsive to dashing Lowdore;* Where the eagle and osprey, scream loud as they

sail

O'er the summit of Skiddaw that frowns on the vale.
Stern Skiddaw gigantic! thy wonderful height
Has lessen'd the objects of tender delight;
How sunk are the charms of the village and wood!
The lake is no more a magnificient flood.

* Two cascades in the vicinity of Keswick.

Thy pride throws a gloom o'er each elegant feature,

Like grandeur, at war with the blessings of nature. If such the effects of too high elevation

Be ours a plain home, in a temperate station, Where life's smiling comforts around us may wait, Unshadow'd by pomp or the frowns of the great.

Come join me, in fancy, where Windermere smiles Qn hills crown'd with verdure, and wood-shaded

isles;

Where Rydal's smooth lake in tranquility lies, Like the bosom of virtue reflecting the skies; Where Grassmere's gay slopes, gently bending,

are seen

To tinge the clear wave with their beautiful green; Where Leathes-water catches the rills that, pure

welling,

Roll murmuring down the rough side of Helvellyn,
Till, hush'd on her bosom, they sink into rest
Like sorrow reclining on sympathy's breast.
What soft tones of tenderness steal thro' the glade,
As silent I list to the distant cascade!

Now, nearer reclin'd, in a grot of the mountain,
My song thus addresses the nymph of the fountain.

Naiad of Rydal, while thy wave

Hoarse pouring down the rocky steep, Shakes the grey cliff and gloomy cave, Here rest thy bending head and weep.

Here tender melancholy dwells

And lifts to Heav'n her tearful eye; Here pity haunts the mossy cells

And heaves the sympathetic sigh. Come pour thy' plaints in freedom here, For here the world-worn heart foregoes Its cares, and wooes ideal woes,

When wild imagination wakes the causeless tear.

Romantic Naiad! thou dost love
The silent, dark, impending grove,
Impervious to the noon-tide ray
The busy glare of flaunting day:
O, hide me, in some still retreat,
Some lowly hermitage, beside
Thy falling waters fullest tide,

Where echo's voice, in accents sweet,
The dashing of thy waves might borrow,
And teach thy murmurs softer sorrow,
As she the gentle plaint resounded,
By woods and waterfalls surrounded.
Within thy still sequester'd bow'r
Shall fancy breathe her magic pow'r,
And bring, in fairy-visions, near,
The forms to love and friendship dear.
Hence, noisy folly loud and rude!
Be wild ambition far away!
No busy thronging cares intrude,
But let the heart keep holiday;