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At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail,
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.

Poor Outcast! return-to receive thee once more
The house of thy Father will open its door,
And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.

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INSCRIPTION

For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.

If thou in the dear love of some one friend

Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts

Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love

Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence

This quiet spot.

-St. Herbert hither came

And here, for many seasons, from the world
Remov'd, and the affections of the world

He dwelt in solitude. He living here, -
This island's sole inhabitant! had left

A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd
As his own soul; and when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix

While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore

Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So pray'd he :-as our Chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.

INSCRIPTION

For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd
Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd
To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace. Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help

From the great city; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw display'd

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts

Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,

Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

It is a homely pile, yet to these walls

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