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The heart of every honest Englishman
Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncor-

rupt, Friends to their common country both, they

fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell all angry and injurious thoughts.

ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN.

Poussin ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes
Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze
With lingering eye, till charmed Fancy makes
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind
Flies far away with spirit-speed, and tastes
The untainted air, that with the lively hue
Of health and happiness illumes the cheek
Of mountain LIBERTY. My willing soul
All eager follows on thy faery flights,
Fancy! best friend; whose blessed witcheries
With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller
O'er the long wearying desert of the world.
Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,
Or Alquif, or Zaizafiel's sister sage,
Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced
Lisuart the Grecian, pride of chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours ! thou leadest me
To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,

Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons ;
Her wretched sons, who pine with want amid
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down
Before the Moloch shrines of WEALTH and

POWER,
AUTHORS of EviE. Oh, it is most sweet
To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart,
Sick of reality. The little pile
Thât tops the summit of that craggy hill
Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill
And steep ; yet through yon hazels upwards leads
The easy path, along whose winding way
Now close-embower'd I hear the unseen stream
Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam
Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on,
Now pause me to survey the goodly vale
That opens on my vision. Half way up
Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock
To sit and sun myself, and look below,
And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank'd

path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff go drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height. Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the border steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers

Rise graceful; brown the mountaîn in its shade Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun Should bound mine eyes,-ay, and my wishes

too, For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices, would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God: nor would he err So deeming, for that home would be the home Of PEACE and LOVE, and they would hallow it To Him. Oh, life of blessedness ! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, That sooth the solitude of maniac HOPE, Ye leave her to reality awaked, Like thee poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored, Startled, and listening as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TABLET AT PENS

HURST.

ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O Reader ? Hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,

Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such love
Hath ever thrill’d thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a Pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
The groves of Penshurst. Sydney here was born,
Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal love.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak,
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sydney's fame
Endureth in his own immortal works.

EXTRACT FROM RODERICK, THE LAST OF

THE GOTHS.

A CHRISTIAN woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after, callid him back,
And placing in his passive hards the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiocy he heard her, and stood still,
Staring a while ; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts.
So through the streets, and through the northern

gate,

Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble yet with hurried step, pursue
His agitated way; and when he reach'd
The open fields, and found himself alone
Beneath the starry canopy of heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf ;
And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul
He breathed thanksgiving forth ; then made his

bed
On heath and myrtle.”

S. T. COLERIDGE.

TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West !

How many various-fated years have past,
What blissful and what anguish'd hours, since

last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its leaps ! Yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny blaze,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze,

And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies, Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze !

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