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-Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary sun betook himself to rest.
-Then issued vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible God

The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her :-oh better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds or evil than such life!

The silent heavens have goings-on;

The stars have tasks-but these have none


SHE had a tall man's height, or more;
No bonnet screened her from the heat;
A long drab-coloured cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:

What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,

Such figure had I never seen:

Her face was of Egyptian brown:
Fit person was she for a queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files:

Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea;

Grief after grief:-on English land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see; 66 a weed of glorious feature!"

I left her, and pursued my way;

And soon before me did espy
A pair of little boys at play,

Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land

The other wore a rimless crown,

With leaves of laurel stuck about:

And they both followed up and down,

Each whooping with a merry shout:

Two brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.


They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with a plaintive whine;
Said I, "Not half an hour ago

Your mother has had alms of mine.'

"That cannot be," one answered, "She is dead."

"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."

"Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;

It was your mother, as I say-"

And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.


WHAT crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by
A telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,
Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
The showman chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy square
And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each is ready with the fee
And envies him that's looking-what an insight must it be!
Yet, showman, whore can lie the cause? Shall thy implement
have blame,

A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ?
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame,
Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name!
Or is it rather that conceit rapacious is and strong,
And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human souls a journey long have had,
And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?

Or must we be constrained to think that these spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,

Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be-men thirst for power and majesty!
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before;
One after one they take their turns, nor have I one espied
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.


WHEN Ruth was left half desolate
Her father took another mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the


As if she from her birth had been

An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight:

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay,

She passed her time; and in this way,

Grew up to woman's height.

There came a youth from Georgia's shore-

A military casque he wore

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought them from the Cherokees;

The feathers nodded in the breeze,

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:

Ah no! he spake the English tongue

And bore a soldier's name;

And, when America was free

From battle and from jeopardy,

He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek

In finest tones the youth could speak.
-While he was yet a boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run,

Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely youth! I guess

The panther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he;

And, when he chose to sport and play,

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought;

And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;

Such tales as, told to any maid

By such a youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls, a happy rout!

Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,

To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song

When day-light is gone down.

He spake of plants divine and strange
That every hour their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues!

With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.

He told of the Magnolia,* spread
High as a cloud, high over head!

The cypress and her spire,

-Of flowers† that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem

To set the hills on fire.

The youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

And then he said "How sweet it were

A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,

Still wandering with an easy mind

To build a household fire, and find

A home in every glade!

"What days and what sweet years! Ah me!

Our life were life indeed, with thee

So passed in quiet bliss,

And all the while," said he, "to know

That we were in a world of woe,

On such an earth as this!"

And then he sometimes interwove

Dear thoughts about a father's love,
"For there," said he," are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,

That our own children to our eyes

Are dearer than the sun.

"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be,

Magnolia grandiflora.

The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the hills in the southern parts of North America, is frequently men. tioned by Bartram in his travels.

Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer!

"Beloved Ruth!"-No more he said.
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed

A solitary tear:

She thought again-and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

"And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife."

Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink,
Delighted all the while to think
That, on those lonesome floods,

And green savannahs, she should share

His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told,

This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And with his dancing crest

So beautiful, through savage lands

Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the west.

The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,

Might well be dangerous food

For him, a youth to whom was given

So much of earth-so much of heaven,

And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found

Irregular in sight or sound

Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seemed allied

To his own powers, and justified

The workings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,

The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,

Fair trees and lovely flowers;

The breezes their own languor lent;

The stars had feelings, which they sent

Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene

Pure hopes of high intent:

For passions linked to forms so fair

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