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XXII.

FROM THE SAME.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed

If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:

My unassisted heart is barren clay,

Which of its native self can nothing feed:

Of good and pious works thou art the seed,

Which quickens only where thou say'st it may:

Unless thou shew to us thine own true way

No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.

Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind

By which such virtue may in me be bred

That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;

The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,

That I may have the power to sing of thee,

And sound thy praises everlastingly.

XXIII.
TO THE LADY

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was framing beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.

XXIV.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The Winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. ,

XXV.

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

Home-felt, and home-created, seems to heal

That grief for which the senses still supply

Fresh food; for only then, when memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain

Those busy cares that would allay my pain:

Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel

The officious touch that makes me droop again.

XXVI.
COMPOSED UPON

WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1803.

Ea RTH has not any thing to shew more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty;
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

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