And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast Glittered at evening like a starry sky; And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep V. STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt One But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, Seek for him, - he is fled; and whither none can say. Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighboring height: Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; But verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. With him there often walked, in friendly guise, Yet some did think that he had little business here: Sweet Heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; His limbs would toss about him with delight, He would have taught you how you might employ Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, A pipe on which the wind would deftly play; The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle-day; The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. He would entice that other Man to hear And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: There did they dwell, from earthly labor free, As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company, Ur butterfly, sat down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a maiden queen. 1802. I MET Louisa in the shade, And, having seen that lovely maid, Why should I fear to say That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, She loves her fire, her cottage home; In weather rough and bleak; And when against the wind she strains, O might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek! Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy rook, |