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THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together.

Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

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The vessels glide, unless their speed be stopped By dead calms, that oft lie on those smooth seas, While every zephyr sleeps;

Then the shrouds drop,

The downy feather on the cordage hung

Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold

Fused in the fire, or like the marble floor

Of some old temple wide; but where so wide,

In old or later time, its marble floor

Did ever temple boast as this, which here

Spreads its bright level many a league around?

DYER.

TO YONDER hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,
Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep,
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;
To watch the aspect of the summer morn,

Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste, delighted, of superior joys,

Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes:

With silent admiration oft we view'd

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;

The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,

Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,

And the round orb itself, in azure throne,

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone:

We mark'd, delighted, how, with aspect gay,

Reviving nature hail'd returning day;

Mark'd how the flow'rets rear'd their drooping heads,
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sing pæans to the source of light:
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aërial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

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AND O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

Think not of any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they :
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

Another race hath been and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WORDSWORTH.

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