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And goved around, charmed and amazed;
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
And murmured, and looked with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain,
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock,
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird along wi' the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern atour them hung,
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young;
And all in a peaceful ring we re hurled:
It was like an eve in a sinless world!



He turned aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,
By a gray mountain's stream; just elevate
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene,
In early summer, when those antique trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green.
But, save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate, and now all wore
One sober hue; the narrow vale, which wound

Among the hills, was gray with rocks, that peered
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was with loose stones bestrewn, which oftentimes,
Sliding beneath the foot of straggling goat,
Clattered adown the steep; or huger crags,
Which, when the coming frost should loosen them,
Would thunder down. All things assorted well
With that gray mountain hue; the low stone lines,
Which scarcely seemed to be the work of man,
The dwelling, rudely reared with stones unhewn,
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees,
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white-barked birch, now leafless, and the ash,
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock,
Where they had forced their way. Adown the vale,
Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed,
Rolled the loud mountain stream.



O READER! hast thou ever stood to see

The holly tree?
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives

Its glossy leaves,
Ordered by an intelligence so wise
As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,

Can reach to wound,

But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize:
And in this wisdom of the holly tree

Can emblems see
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear

Harsh and austere ;
To those, who on my leisure would intrude,

Reserved and rude ;
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,

Some harshness show,
All vain asperities, I day by day

Would wear away;
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,
The holly leaves their fadeless lines display

Less bright than they ;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree.

So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gny,

More grave than they;
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.


THE EVENING RAINBOW. Mild arch of promise ! on the evening sky

Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray, Each in the other melting. Much mine eye

Delights to linger on thee; for the day, Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile, Flashing brief splendour through its clouds a while,

That deepened dark anon, and fell in rain :
But pleasant it is now to pause and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,

And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that Piety bestows

On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.



Tuey sin who tell us love can die.
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth ;

But Love is indestructible:
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth:
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest :
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.



BENEATH a shivering canopy reclined,
Of aspen leaves that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;
Or wander ʼmid the dark green fields of broom,
When peers in scattered tufts the yellow bloom :
Or trace the path with tangling furze o’errun,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confusedly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill :
Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie
Serenely in the green-ribbed clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form and undisturbed thy rest;
Oft have I, listening, mused the sultry day,
And wondered what thy chirping song might say,
When nought was heard along the blossomed lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.


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