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Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand,

And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.



AN APRIL, DAY. WHEN the warm sun that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

• These poems were written, for the most part, during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names, and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion :-"I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”

I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright

forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured

wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope

throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

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