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XII.

they are of the shy,

And from our earthly memory fade amay.

These words were uttered in a pensive mood,
Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable, and deserts me quite:
Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

XIII.

COMPOSED AT CASTLE.

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,
A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

XIV

TO THE POET, DYER.

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made

That Work a living landscape fair and bright;

Nor hallowed less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood stray'd,

Those southern Tracts of Cambria, " deep embayed,

By green hills fenced, by Ocean's murmur lulled;"

Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled

For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade

Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,

Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,

A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay

Long as the Shepherd's bleating flock shall stray

O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.

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0 Gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A Captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vexed with mockery.

1 have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence I am cross and peevish as a child:
And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:

O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled!

XVI.
TO SLEEP.

A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

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