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A time-worn tree, he could not bring
Or countenance his scandals ;
At either end their candles.
When Blake was busy with the Dutch
And thrice four maids and men ate
And Chatham swayed the senate.
His few remaining boughs were green,
Upon the dappled deer,
They mourned their darling here.
They joined their boy. The tree at last Lies prone, — discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking, Resigned, though headlong changes come, Though nátions arm to tuck of drum,
And dynasties are quaking.
Romantic spot! By honest pride
My pensive vigil keeping,
I feel thy beauty like a spell,
That fill my heart to weeping.
HAWKSHEAD, AND in the frosty season, when the sun The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, I heeded not their summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us, -- for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six, I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, We hissed along the polished ice in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, - the resounding horn, The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
even as if the earth had rolled
Ye presences of nature in the sky
NCE more upon this happy hill
Doth yet my free foot bound at will;
CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty
and wide ; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had
Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain
heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst