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How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to faunter through a wood !
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks ;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like to a bonny lass, who plays her pranks
At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks,-
When the stands cresting the clown's head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily, I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream,
Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

Mark the concentrated hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns :—and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof—amid embowering gloom
The very image framing of a tomb,
In which some ancient chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains.—Live, ye trees !
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep

Of a dark chamber where the mighty feep:
For more than fancy to the influence bends,
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun
Is finking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of Heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder everlastingly.
Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,
Thy nature therefore is not less divine :
Thou liest “in Abraham's bosom ” all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

CALM IS ALL NATURE AS A RESTING WHEEL.

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass ;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal :
Dark is the ground, a llumber seems to steal
O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky,
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hush'd, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain ;
Oh, leave me to myself! nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

Domestic Poems.

THE PET LAMB.

A PASTORAL

| HE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; 1) I heard a voice: it said, “ Drink, pretty creature,

drink!” And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied > A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at

its side.

***

And by a

No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden

kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening

meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure

shook. “ Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare !
I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair.
Now, with her empty can the maiden turned away ;
But, ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might fing :-

6. What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy

cord ?
Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board ?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

“What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy

heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful thou art : This grass is tender grass; these Aowers they have no peers ; And that green corn, all day, is rustling in thy ears !

“ If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ;
For rain and mountain storms ! the like thou need’st not fear-
The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

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