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Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon Or what he views of beautiful or grand

Together, or all gambol in the shade In nature, from the broad majestic oak

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. To the green blade, that twinkles in the sun, Antipathies are none. No foe to man Prompts with remembrance of a present God. Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees, His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene

Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, Is dreary, so with him all seasons please.

To stroke his azure neck, or to receive Though winter had been none, had mau been true,

The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. And earth be punished for its tenant's sake,

All creatures worship man, and all mankind Yet not in vengeance: as this smiling sky,

One Lord, one Father. Error has no place: So soon succeeding such an angry night,

That creeping pestilence is driven away;
And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart
Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.

No passion touches a discordant string,
But all is harmony and love. Disease

Is not: the pure and uncontaminate blood

Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.

One The groans of nature in this nether world,

song employs all nations; and all cry, Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,

Shout to each other, and the mountain tops The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes.

From distant mountains catch the flying joy; Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Till nation after nation taught the strain, Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course

Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. Over a sinful world; and what remains

Benold the measure of the promise filled; of this tempestuous state of human things,

See Salem built, the labour of a God! Is merely as the working of a sea

Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest:

All kingdoms and all princes of the earth For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds Flock to that light; the glory of all lands The dust, that waits upon his sultry march,

Flows into her; unbounded is her joy, When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Shall visit earth in mercy; sball descend

Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; Propitious in his chariot paved with love;

The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And what his storms have blasted and defaced And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch:

Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Nor can the wonders it records be sung

Kneels with the native of the farthest west; To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand, But when a poet, or when one like me,

And worships. Her report has travelled forth llappy to rove among poetic flowers,

Into all lands. From every clime they come
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last To see thy beauty and to share thy joy.
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, O Sion! an assembly such as earth
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels

Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. To give it praise proportioned to its worth,

Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems

Perfect, and all must be at length restored. [once The labour, were a task more arduous still. So God has greatly purposed; who would else Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,

In his dishonoured works himself endure Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see, Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. Though but in distant prospect, and not feel Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, Ilis soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?

Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach A world, that does not dread and hate his laws, Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field

And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean, The creature is that God pronounces good, Or fertile only in its own disgrace,

How pleasant in itself what pleases him. Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.

Here every drop of honey hides a sting; The various seasons woven into one,

Worms wird themselves into our sweetest flowers; And that one season an eternal spring,

And ev'n the joy, that haply some poor heart The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, For there is none to covet, all are full.

Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint The lion, and the libbard, and the bear

From touch of human lips, at best impure.


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Oh for a world in principle as chaste

To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, As this is gross and selfish! over which

High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,

Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down That govern all things here, shouldering aside

The features of the last degenerate times,
The meek and modest truth, and forcing her Exhibit every lineament of these.
To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife

Come then, and added to thy many crowns,
In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men : Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Where violence shall never list the sword,

Due to thy last and most effectual work,
Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, Thy word fulfilled, the conquest of a world!
Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:

He is the happy man, whose life e'en now
Where he, that fills an office, shall esteem

Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; The occasion it presents of doing good

Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, More than the perquisite: where law shall speak Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts

Would make his fate his choice; whom the And equity; not jealous more to guard

Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, (fruit A worthless form, than to decide aright:

Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,

Content indeed to sojourn while he must Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) Below the skies, but having there his home. With lean performance ape the work of love! The world o'erlooks him in her busy search

Come then, and added to thy many crowns, Of objects, more illustrious in her view; Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, And, occupied as earnestly as she, Thou who alone art worthy! It was thine

Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth;

She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, He seeks not her's, for he bas proved them vain. And overpaid its value with thy blood.

He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Thy title is engraven with a pen

Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.

Therefore in contemplation is his bliss : Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, The dawn of thy last advent, long-desired,

And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Would creep into the bowels of the bills,

Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And flee for safety to the falling rocks.

And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams The very spirit of the world is tired

Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird, Of its own taunting question, asked so long, That flutters least, is longest on the wing. “ Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ?" Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, The infidel has shot his bolts away,

Or what achievements of immortal fame Till his exhausted quiver yielding none,

He purposes, and he shall answer-None. He gleans the blunted shafts, that have recoiled, His warfare is within. There unfatigued And aims them at the shield of truth again.

His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,

And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, That hides divinity from mortal eyes;

And never withering wreaths, compared with which And all the mysteries to faith proposed,

The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,

Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, As useless, to the moles and to the bats.

That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks They now are deemed the faithful, and are praised, Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Who constant only in rejecting thee,

Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,

Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, And quit their office for their error's sake.

Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Blind, and in love with darkness ! yet even these Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! When, Isaac like, the solitary saint So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, The world takes little thought. Who will may And think on her, who thinks not for herself. preach,

Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns
And what they will. All pastors are alike

Of little worth, an idler in the best,
To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none. If, author of no mischief and some good,
Two gods divide them all-Pleasure and Gain: He seek his proper happiness by means,
For these they live, they sacrifice to these,

That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. And in their service wage perpetual war

Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth Account him an incuinbrance on the state,



Receiving benefits, and rendering none.

'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, Shine with his fair example, and though small To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Ilis influence, if that influence all be spent

Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, Whose approbation--prosper even mine.
In aiding helpless indigence, in works,
From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of woe,

Then let the supercilious great confess
He serves his country, recompenses well

The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine

She came—she is gone-we have metHe sits secure, and in the scale of life

And meet perhaps never again; Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.

The sun of that moment is set, The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,

And seems to have risen in vain. Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ;

Catharina has fled like a dream But he may boast what few that win it can,

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) That if his country stand not by his skill,

But has left a regret and esteem,
At least his follies have not wrought her fall.

That will not so suddenly pass.
Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world The last evening ramble we made,
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

Catharina, Maria, and I,
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.

Our progress was often delayed Not that he peevishly rejects a mode,

By the nightingale warbling nigh. Because that world adopts it. If it bear

We paused under many a tree, The stamp and clear impression of good sense,

And much she was charmed with a tone And be not costly more than of true worth,

Less sweet to Maria and me, He puts it on, and for decorum sake

Who had witnessed so lately her own. Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye,

My numbers that day she had sung, He by the test of conscience, and a heart

And gave them a grace so divine, Not soon deceived; aware that what is base

As only her musical tongue No polish can make sterling; and that vice,

Could infuse into numbers of mine. Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed,

The longer I heard, I esteemed Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers,

The work of my fancy the more, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far

And ev'n to myself never seemed
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

So tuneful a poet before.
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold

Though the pleasures of London exceed

In number the days of the year, Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care

Catharina, did nothing impede, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved

Would feel herself happier here; Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.

For the close woven arches of limes So glide my life away! and so at last,

On the banks of our river, I know,
My share of duties decently fulfilled,

Are sweeter to her many times
May some disease, not tardy to perform
Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke

Than all that the city can show.
Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,

So it is, when the mind is endued Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

With a well-judging taste from above, It shall not grieve me then, that once, when called

Then, whether embellished or rude, To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,

'Tis nature alone that we love. I played awhile, obedient to the fair,

The achievements of art may amuse, With that light task; but soon, to please her more,

May even our wonder excite, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,

But groves,

hills, and vallies, diffuse Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;

A lasting, a sacred delight. Roved far, and gathered much: some harsh, 'tis true,

Since then in the rural recess Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,

Catharina alone can rejoice, But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some May it still be her lot to possess To palates, that can taste immortal truth;

The scene of her sensible choice! Insipid else, and sure to be despised.

To inhabit a mansion remote But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,

And by Philomel's annual note If he regard not, though divine the theme.

To measure the life that she leads :


With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, (again; To wing all her moments at home,

Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round And with scenes that new rapture inspire

But, recollecting with a sudden thought, As oft as it suits her to roam.

That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, She will have just the life she prefers,

They gathered close around the old pit's brink, With little to wish or to fear,

And thought again-but knew not what to think. And ours will be pleasant as hers,

The man to solitude accustomed long,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees,

Have speech for him, and understood with ease;

After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;

Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, There is a field, through which I often pass,

How glad they catch the largess of the skies; Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,

But, with precision nicer still, the mind Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,

He scans of every loco-motive kind; Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,

Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring 'squire,

That serve mankind, or shuu them, wild or tame; That he may follow them through brake and briar, The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,

Have all articulation in his ears; Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.

He spells them true by intuition's light, A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, And needs no glossary to set him right. Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;

This truth premised was needful as a text, Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,

To win due credence to what follows next. But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;

Awhile they mused; surveying every face, And where the land slopes to its watery bourn,

Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn ; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined, Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago,

Stamped on each countenance such marks of mind, And horrid brambles intertwine below;

That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt, A hollow scooped, I judge in ancient time,

Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ;

When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray,

A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, addressed. With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;

Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack: Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared. Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,

Could I believe that winds for ages pent With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats,

In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes,

And from their prison-house below arise, For which, alas ! my destiny severe,

With all these hideous howlings to the skies, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

I could be much composed, nor should appear The sun, accomplishing his early march,

For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,

Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolled When, exercise and air my only aim,

All night, we resting quiet in the fold. And heedless whither, to that field I came,

Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound

I could expound the melancholy tone; Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,

Should deem it by our old companion made, Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry rang.

And being lost perhaps, and wandering wide, Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. pressed

But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest; That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Dæmons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawed Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.

And fanged with brass the dæmons are abroad; All seemed so peaceful, that from them conveyed

I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.

That life to save, we leap into the pit. But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, Him answered then his loving mate and true, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak,

But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it burst appeared, To save our life leap all into the grave?
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed, For can we find it less ? Contemplate first
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:

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Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
In part abate, that happiness were small;

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
For with a race like theirs no chance I see

The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. Or be it not, or be it whose it may,

What ardently I wished, I long believed, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues And, disappointed still, was still deceived. Of dæmons uttered, from whatever lungs,

By disappointment every day beguiled, Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear,

Dupe of tomorrow even from a child. We have at least commodious standing here.

Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.

I learned at last submission to my lot, While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. For Reynard, close attended at his heels

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, By panting dog, tired man, and spattered horse, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; Through mere good fortune, took a different course. And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The flock grew calm again, and I, the road

Drew me to school along the public way, Following, that led me to my own abode,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt Much wondered that the silly sheep had found

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, Such cause of terror in an empty sound

'Tis now become a history little known, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, PICTURE.

The biscuit, or confectionary plum; Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

All this, and more endearing still than all, Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see, 'The

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, same, that oft in childhood solaced me;

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,

That humour interposed too often makes; “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

All this still legible in memory's page, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

And still to be so to my latest age, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Who biddest me honour with an artless song,

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, I will obey, not willingly alone,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)

Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here! A momentary dream, that thou art she.

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

But no—what here we call our life is such,
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-

Thy ynbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,

Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such i-It was. Where thou art gone,

Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play


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