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If thou didst feed on western plains of yore,

Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor,

Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat

From gipsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet, If thy grey quills by lawyer guided, trace Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,

Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,

Wailing the rigour of some lady fair ;
Or of the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinion white besoil,

Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with sage, and onions, and port wine.


Lie lightly on her bosom, gentle earth!

For poor Amelia's bosom was the seat

Of maiden purity, and once it beat
With nature's best affections; but her worth
Bloom'd like the desert flower. Hard Poverty

His heavy hand upon her race had laid,
No friend, no dear congenial soul had she,

Her cold, coarse comrades drove the wretched maid To lonely thought. The feelings that had blest A fellow heart, imprison'd in her breast,

Were tortures there, and on her life they prey'd.

Poor victim of misfortune from her birth, She pin'd away and died, and is at rest.

Lie lightly on her bosom, gentle earth!


Thou lingerest, Spring ! still wintry is the scene,

The fields their dead and sapless russet wear,

Scarce does the glossy pile-wort yet appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green

The elder yet its circling tufts put forth.
The sparrow tenants still the caves-built nest
Where we should see our martins' snowy breast

Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north
And from the keener east still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest! and it should be so-

Late let the fields and gardens blossom out! Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest, "Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best, When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.


Wake the loud harp to rapture ! on the gale

O'er Avon's woody steeps that swept along,

Oft has it pour'd the melancholy song
Of memory; often in the primros'd vale,

Where Cherwell winds her willowy meads among,
Echoed to Sorrow's solitary tale;
Now let it speak of Joy! for now no more

It hymns responsive to the hand of woe,

The dirge of Hope departed ; sad and slow
No more Despair shall lead where bending o'er

Her tomb despondent Love his head hung low.,
And from his brow the blasted myrtle tore.
Wake the loud harp to Rapture ! let it move
Its jocund strings to happiness and love.

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Written in a Boat, on Loch Lomond, on seeing one dart into a

Capse, on one side of the Islands of the Lake.)

Whither lone wanderer-whither art thou flown?

To what sequester'd bower or gloomy dell? Say dost thou


where sorrow is unknown, Where trouble never enters dost thou dwell > Lend me thy wing then, tenant of these shades !

Lend me thy wing, thy gentle aid impart, For I would fain explore these wizard glades,

And shun the feeblest trace of human art ! Oh kindly guide me to a CAVE OF NIGHT,

So wild, so very secret, so unknown,
That not impervious only to the sight

The CALLOUS Mind its power' may also own;
And darken'd Memory, ceasing to inform,
A wretch may shelter from misfortune's storm.


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