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The Muse Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
of humble Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
^m^s Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange—
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.


When Mark the concentred hazels that enclose Nature Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray mimics Man Qf noontide suns :—and even the beams that play And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, The very image framing of a Tomb, In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains.—Live, ye trees! And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: For more than Fancy to the influence bends When solitary Nature condescends To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell; A1
The wished-for point was reached—but at an hour sky
When little could be gained from that rich dower ^^bleton
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. Yorkshire)
Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power Oct. 4, 1802
Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,
Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
Substantially expressed—a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
With groves that never were imagined, lay
'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while
We should forget them; they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away.

"they are of the sky. The passing

And from our earthly memory fade away." clouds and

Those words were uttered as in pensive mood the immortal

We turned, departing from that solemn sight: Mind

A contrast and reproach to gross delight,

And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!

But now upon this thought I cannot brood;

It is unstable as a dream of night;

Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,

Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.

Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,

Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,

Find in the heart of man no natural home:

The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:

These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,

Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

The spur of While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, winter With ripening harvest prodigally fair,

(September, jn brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields

His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields

Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;

And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare

Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."

For me, who under kindlier laws belong

To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry

Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,

Announce a season potent to renew,

'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,

And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,
Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can

Shines like another sun—on mortal sight
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night,
Andallhertwinklingstars. Whonowwouldtread,
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head—
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,
Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure,
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

The snow' strewn Peak (November i 1815)

One who was suffering tumult in his soul Blue sky in

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, *ne storm
Went forth—his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness,

As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, that instant did appear
Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc—shield of Tranquillity;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white To a Snow-
as they DroP
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
Thy forehead as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
Shall soon behold this border thickly set
With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
Nor will I then my modest grace forget,
Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring,
And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

To the Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave Lady Mary (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore; ^owith a ^Xl'^ culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store selection Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave from the The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave Poems of Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore

Anne, j)\m shades—for reliques, upon Lethe's shore,
Countess ofj L u n
Winchelsea ^"ast uP at random by the sullen wave,
and others To female hands the treasures were resigned;

And lo this Work !—a grotto bright and clear
From stain or taint; in which thy blameless mind
May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere;
Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined
To holy musing, it may enter here.

To the Lady Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
Beaumont While I was shaping beds for winter flowers;

While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs—to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.

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