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Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame,

A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,

Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?

Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?

Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?

Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators


Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore

prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be

Men thirst for power and


Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind


Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:

One after One they take their turns, nor have I one


That doth not slacky go away, as if dissatisfied,



THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;

The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;


grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors

The Hare is running races in her mirth;

And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun,

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ :
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
As high as we have mounted in delight

In our dejection do we sink as low,

To me that morning did it happen so;

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;

Dim sadness, and blind thoughts I knew not nor could name.

I heard the Sky-lark singing in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me-
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,

As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side :
By our own spirits are we deified;

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
And I with these untoward thoughts had striven,

I saw a Man before me unawares :

The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

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