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My nerves from no such murmur shrink, though

near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, ' When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear To household virtues. Venerable Art, Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, Trusting to crowded factory and mart And proud discoveries of the intellect, Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.

XXI.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND,

ON EASTER SUNDAY.

WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment, — till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may I be who heard your Sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales !

XXII.

DECAY OF PIETY.

OFT have I seen,ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
Matrons and Sires, who, punctual to the call
Of their loved Church, on fast or festival
Through the long year the House of Prayer would

seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
But with one fervor of devotion meek.
I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Is ancient Piety for ever flown ?
Alas ! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds
That, struggling through the western sky, have won
Their pensive light from a departed sun!

XXIII.

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND

IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.

What need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ?
Angels of love, look down upon the place ;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise : -- serious is her face,

Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep

pace With gentleness, in that becoming way Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear; No disproportion in her soul, no strife : But when the closer view of wedded life Hath shown that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent lord become more dear.

XXIV.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

1. YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; For if of our affections none finds grace In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

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FROM TIIE SAME.

II.
No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,

And my Soul felt her destiny divine, * And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must

hold; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes : nor will he lend His heart to aught that doth on time depend. 'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.

XXVI.

FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.

III.

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed :
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
That quickens only where Thou say'st it may:

Unless Thou show 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.

XXVII.

SURPRISED share the train the

SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find ?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind, -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss! - That thought's re-

turn
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

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