How exquisitely the individual Mind
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external World
Is fitted: and how exquisitely, too,

Theme this but little heard of among Men,
The external World is fitted to the Mind;
And the creation (by no lower name

Can it be called) which they with blended might
Accomplish: this is our high argument.

- Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere to travel near the tribes

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
Madding passions mutually inflamed;
Must he a humanity in fields and groves
Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore

Within the walls of Cities; may these sounds
Have their authentic comment - that even these
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn!

Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspirest
The human Soul of universal earth,

Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess
A metropolitan Temple in the hearts

Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow

A gift of genuine insight; that my Song
With star-like virtue in its place may shine;
Shedding benignant influence, - and secure,

Itself, from all malevolent effect

Of those mutations that extend their sway

Throughout the nether sphere! And if with this I mix more lowly matter; with the thing Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man

*Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.
SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets.

Contemplating, and who, and what he was,

The transitory Being that beheld

This Vision,-when, and where, and how he lived;
Be not this labor useless. If such theme

May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power,
Whose gracious favor is the primal source
Of all illumination, may my Life

Express the image of a better time,

More wise desires, and simpler manners; - nurse
My heart in genuine freedom: — All pure thoughts
Be with me; - so shall thy unfailing love
Guide and support, and cheer me to the end!"

A summer forenoon- The Author reaches a ruined Cottage, upon a Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account-The Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant.

'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high:
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared
Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs,
In clearest air ascending, showed far off

A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung
From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed;
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss
Extends his careless limbs along the front
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts

A twilight of its own, an ample shade,

Where the Wren warbles; while the dreaming Man,

Half conscious of the soothing melody,
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,
By power of that impending covert thrown
To finer distance. Other lot was mine;
Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain
As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy.
Across a bare wide Common I was toiling
With languid steps that by the slippery ground
Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse
The hosts of insects gathering round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.

Upon that open level stood a Grove,

The wished-for port to which my course was bound.
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms,
Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls
That stared upon each other! I looked round,
And to my wish and to my hope espied
Him whom I sought; a Man of reverend age,
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired.
There was he seen upon the Cottage bench,
Recumbent in the shade as if asleep;
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.

Him had I marked the day before alone
And stationed in the public way, with face

Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff
Afforded to the Figure of the Man
Detained for contemplation or repose,

Graceful support; his countenance meanwhile
Was hidden from my view, and he remained
Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight,
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon
A glad congratulation we exchanged

At such unthought-of meeting. For the night
We parted, nothing willingly; and now
He by appointment waited for me here
Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms.

We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale,
In the antique market village where were passed
My school-days, an apartment he had owned,
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew,
And found a kind of home or harbor there.
He loved me; from a swarm of rosy Boys
Singled out me, as he in sport would say,
For my grave looks too thoughtful for my years.
As I grew up, it was my best delight

To be his chosen Comrade. Many a time,
On holidays, we rambled through the woods:
We sate -we walked; he pleased me with report
Of things which he had seen; and often touched
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind,
Turned inward; or at my request would sing
Old songs
- the product of his native hills;
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds,
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed
As cool refreshing Water, by the care
Of the industrious husbandman, diffused

Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought.
Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse:
How precious when in riper days I learned
To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice
In the plain presence of his dignity!

Oh! many are the Poets that are sown

By Nature; Men endowed with highest gifts,

The vision and the faculty divine;

Yet wanting the accomplishment of Verse,