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To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land,
As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes fanned;
A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats
For Gods in council, whose green vales, retreats
Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there
To breathe Elysian peace in upper air.

Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave,
Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a slave.
Shall man assume a property in man?
Lay on the moral will a withering ban?
Shame that our laws at distance still protect
Enormities, which they at home reject!

"Slaves cannot breathe in England," - yet that

Is but a mockery! when from coast to coast,
Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil
Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil,
For the poor Many, measured out by rules
Fetched with cupidity from heartless schools,
That to an Idol, falsely called "the Wealth
Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health,
Body and mind and soul; a thirst so keen
Is ever urging on the vast machine

Of sleepless Labor, 'mid whose dizzy wheels

The Power least prized is that which thinks and feels.

Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age, And all the heavy or light vassalage

Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit

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Our varying moods, on human kind or brute,
"T were well in little, as in great, to pause,
Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws.
Not from his fellows only man may learn
Rights to compare and duties to discern!
All creatures and all objects, in degree,
Are friends and patrons of humanity.
There are to whom the garden, grove, and field
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield;
Who would not lightly violate the grace
The lowliest flower possesses in its place;
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive,

Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give.



THE unremitting voice of nightly streams,
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers,
If neither soothing to the worm that gleams
Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in

Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,
That voice of unpretending harmony

(For who what is shall measure by what seems To be, or not to be,

Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
Wants not a healing influence that can creep
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep

To regulate the motion of our dreams

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For kindly issues, as through every clime Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time; As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell.




FLATTERED with promise of escape
From every hurtful blast,

Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape,
Her loveliest and her last.

Less fair is Summer riding high

In fierce solstitial power,

Less fair than when a lenient sky
Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves

The labors of the plough,

And ripening fruits and forest leaves

All brighten on the bough,

What pensive beauty Autumn shows,
Before she hears the sound

Of Winter rushing in, to close
The emblematic round!

Such be our Spring, our Summer such;
So may our Autumn blend

With hoary Winter, and Life touch,
Through heaven-born hope, her end!





"Tum porro puer, ut sævis projectus ab undis
Navita, nudus humi jacet," &c. - LUCRETIUS.

LIKE a shipwrecked Sailor tost
By rough waves on a perilous coast,
Lies the Babe, in helplessness

And in tenderest nakedness,
Flung by laboring Nature forth
Upon the mercies of the earth.
Can its eyes beseech?

no more

Than the hands are free to implore:
Voice but serves for one brief cry;
Plaint was it? or prophecy

Of sorrow that will surely come?
Omen of man's grievous doom!

But, O Mother! by the close Duly granted to thy throes; By the silent thanks, now tending Incense-like to Heaven, descending Now to mingle and to move With the gush of earthly love, As a debt to that frail Creature, Instrument of struggling Nature For the blissful calm, the peace Known but to this one release, — Can the pitying spirit doubt That for human kind springs out From the penalty a sense

Of more than mortal recompense?

As a floating summer cloud, Though of gorgeous drapery proud, To the sun-burnt traveller,

Or the stooping laborer,

Ofttimes makes its bounty known
By its shadow round him thrown ;
So, by checkerings of sad cheer,
Heavenly Guardians, brooding near,
Of their presence tell,—too bright,
Haply, for corporeal sight!
Ministers of grace divine
Feelingly their brows incline
O'er this seeming Castaway,
Breathing, in the light of day,
Something like the faintest breath

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