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Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature therefore is not less divine:

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Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom " all the year;

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not anything to show 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 splendour 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!

THE BROOK.

BROOK! whose society the Poet seeks
Intent his wasted spirits to renew ;

And whom the curious Painter doth pursue

Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,

And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;

If I some type of thee did wish to view,

Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do

Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,

Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be, Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs.

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It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, Ann hath bestowed on thee a better good

Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.

WHERE lies the Land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a lark at break of day:

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry-Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when ships were rare
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters), doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

1801.

I GRIEVED for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires
To genuine greatness but from just desires,
And knowledge such as he could never gain?
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly and weak as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk

Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

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!

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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 everything, we are out of tune;

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