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But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By Virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch,


- her arch, when winds blow

Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;

And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher: Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice, it said, "Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we





Is then no nook of English ground secure
From rash assault?* Schemes of retirement sown
In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure
As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown,
Must perish; how can they this blight endure?

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* The degree and kind of attachment which many of the yeomanry feel to their small inheritances can scarcely be overrated. Near the house of one of them stands a magnificent rue, which a neighbor of the owner advised him to fell for profit's sake. "Fell it!" exclaimed the yeoman, "I had rather fall on my knees and worship it." It happens, I believe, that the intended railway would pass through this little property, and I hope that an apology for the answer will not be thought necessary by one who enters into the strength of the feeling.

And must be too the ruthless change bemoan
Who scorns a false utilitarian lure

'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown?
Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest-head
Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance:
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance
Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead,

Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with your strong
And constant voice, protest against the wrong.
October 12th, 1844.


PROUD were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old,
Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war,

Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar:
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold,
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star,
Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold,
And clear way made for her triumphal car
Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold!
Heard YE that Whistle? As her long-linked Train
Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view?
Yes, ye were startled; and, in balance true
Weighing the mischief with the promised gain,
Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you
To share the passion of a just disdain.

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HERE, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing,
Man left this Structure to become Time's prey,
A soothing spirit follows in the way

That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.
See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin,
Fall to prevent or beautify decay;

And, on the mouldered walls, how bright, how gay,
The flowers in pearly dews their bloom renewing!
Thanks to the place, blessings upon the hour;
Even as I speak, the rising Sun's first smile
Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall Tower
Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim
Prescriptive title to the shattered pile

Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but name!



WELL have yon Railway Laborers to THIS ground
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk

Is heard; to grave demeanor all are bound;
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound
Hallows once more the long-deserted Choir,
And thrills the old, sepulchral earth around.

Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire

That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised,

To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace:
All seem to feel the spirit of the place,

And by the general reverence God is praised:
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved,
While thus these simple-hearted men are moved i
June 21st, 1845.


Page 82.

"To the Daisy."

This Poem, and two others to the same Flower, were written in the year 1802; which is mentioned, because in some of the ideas, though not in the manner in which those ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of the expressions, there is a resemblance to passages in a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery's, entitled, A Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any apology due to him; I cannot, however, help addressing him in the words of the Father of English Poets.

"Though it happe me to rehersin

That ye han in your freshe songis saied,
Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied,
Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour

Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour."

Page 46.


"The Seven Sisters."

The Story of this Poem is from the German of FREDERICA BRUN.

Page 85.

"The Wagoner."

Several years after the event that forms the subject of the Foem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the name of Ben

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