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The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.



CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride
Of thy domain, strange contrast do present
To house and home in many a craggy rent
Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide
Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide
As in a dear and chosen banishment,


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every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried! Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, That not for Fancy only pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favored life, may honor both.




"T IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill
Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face to face,
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still

Or feed, each planted on that lofty place

A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil
Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they
In opposite directions urged their way

Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill

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Or blight that fond memorial; the trees grew,

And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again
Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew
Until their spirits mingled in the sea
That to itself takes all, Eternity.

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(On the Way-side between Preston and Liverpool.

UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold;
Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth
Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth;
That Pile of Turf is half a century old :
Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told
Since suddenly the dart of death went forth
'Gainst him who raised it, his last work on earth:
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold
Upon his Father's memory, that his hands,
Through reverence, touch it only to repair
Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath
of air,

In annual renovation thus it stands,

Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,

And redbreasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.



[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.

Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place;
And, if Time spare the colors for the grace
Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt,
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream,
And think and feel as once the Poet felt.
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown
Unrecognized through many a household tear,
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ;
Tears of delight, that testified how true
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

WHY art thou silent?


Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For naught but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to


A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold,
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
'Mid its own blush of leafless eglantine,
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!



HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill
Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines
And charm of colors; I applaud those signs
Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill;
That unencumbered whole of blank and still,
Sky without cloud, ocean without a wave;
And the one Man that labored to enslave
The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill, -
Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face
Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place
With light reflected from the invisible sun,

Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye,

Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way, And before him doth dawn perpetual run.



He hath put his heart to school,

Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff

Which Art hath lodged within his hand, must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.

Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.


THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky
Owe to a troubled element their forms,
Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye
We watch their splendor, shall we covet storms,
And wish the lord of day his slow decline
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high?

Behold, already they forget to shine,

Dissolve, and leave to him who gazed a sigh.
Not loth to thank each moment for its boon

Of pure delight, come whensoe'er it may,
Peace let us seek,

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to steadfast things attune

Calm expectations, leaving to the gay
And volatile their love of transient bowers,
The house that cannot pass away be ours.

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