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That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky !
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart.
I look—the sky is empty space ;
I know not what I trace ;
But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

“O, what a weight is in these shades ! ye leaves,
When will that dying murmur be supprefl'd?
Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
It robs my heart of rest.
Thou thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows fit, .
Upon that alder sit,
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

“ Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chain'd!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustain'd;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb ! -
Be anything, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.

“ Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale),

Thou one fair Ihrub-oh, shed thy Alowers,
And stir not in the gale!
For thus to see thee nodding in the air, -
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend, -
Disturbs me, till the fight is more than I can bear.”

The man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.

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ELION and Offa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled :
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring hill, which “ did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,”
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,

Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British hill is fairer far: he shrouds
His double-fronted head in higher clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.


“Up, Timothy, up, with your staff, and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

-Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

The basin of boxwood, just six months before,
Had stood on the table at Timothy's door.
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had pasl’d;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the “ hark! hark away!”
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he Thut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
“ The key I must take, for my Helen is dead.”
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.


For the Spot where the Hermitage Stood


This island, guarded from profane approach
By mountains high, and waters widely spread,
Is that recess to which St. Herbert came
In life's decline: a self- secluded man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things.

—Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth (Long be its mossy covering undisturbed !) Is reverenced as a veftige of the abode

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