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TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee, and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy two-fold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome! darling of the Spring

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and cn the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home or Thee!

SONNET,

COMPOSED BY THE

SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS,
AUGUST, 1802.

FAIR Star of evening, Splendor of the west,
Star of my Country!—on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem: and should'st wink
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER.

'MID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display ;

If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware
But if the Poet's wit ye share,

Like him can speed

The social hour of tenfold care
There will be need.

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet!

O where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honorable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven.”

Let no mean hope you souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your father such example gave,
And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

And think, and fear!

SONNET.

Oh what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech Yet though dread Powers, that work in mystery

spin

Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch

O'er the chilled heart reflect; far, far within
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin.

She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch,

But delegated Spirits comfort fetch

To Her from heights that Reason may not win.
Like Children, She is privileged to hold
Divine communion; both to live and move,
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold,
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love;
Love pitying innocence not long to last,
In them in Her our sins and sorrows past.

THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

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