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Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove
Now her mood
Recals the transformation of the flood,
Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety?
PREJUDGED by foes determined not to spare,
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear
On hope that conscious innocence supplied,
Why tarries then thy chariot? Wherefore stay,
* See Note.
AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND.
HARP! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string,
Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and waste
Off to the mountains, like a covering
Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh! weep,
FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES.
[WHEN I came to this part of the series I had the dream described in this Sonnet. The figure was that of my daughter, and the whole passed exactly as here represented. The Sonnet was composed on the middle road leading from Grasmere to Ambleside it was begun as I left the last house of the vale, and finished, word for word as it now stands, before I came in view of Rydal. I wish I could say the same of the five or six hundred I have written: most of them were frequently retouched in the course of composition, and, not a few, laboriously.
I have only further to observe that the intended Church which prompted these Sonnets was erected on Coleorton Moor towards the centre of a very populous parish between three and four miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, on the road to Loughborough, and has proved, I believe, a great benefit to the neighbourhood.]
I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree,
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade.
But while I gazed in tender reverie
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played ?)
LAST night, without a voice, that Vision spake
Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream;
If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore
CHARLES THE SECOND.
WHO Comes with rapture greeted, and caressed
With frantic love-his kingdom to regain?
Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain
Received, and fostered in her iron breast:
For all she taught of hardiest and of best,
But for what gain? if England soon must sink
That bigotry may swallow the good name,
And, with that draught, the life-blood: misery, shame, By Poets loathed; from which Historians shrink!
YET Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought's
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence,
Or a Platonic Piety confined
To the sole temple of the inward mind;
Sad thoughts; for from above the starry sphere
Shines through his soul-'that he may see and tell