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And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; -And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.



Who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country.

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!
-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold,

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see

Thy own delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,

As if thy heritage were joy,

And pleasure were thy trade,

Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,

Shalt shew us how divine a thing

A Woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee when grey-hairs are nigh

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.




I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths s;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played: Their thoughts I cannot measure :—

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?




With an Incident in which he was concerned.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.

Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burthen weighty;


says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,

That's fair behind, and fair before;

Yet, meet him where you will, you see

At once that he is poor.

Full five-and-twenty years he lived

A running Huntsman merry;

And, though he has but one eye left,

His cheek is like a cherry.

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