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But, with a chirrup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long,

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau trotted far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd,

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, " The world," I cried,

"Shall hear of this thy deed; "My dog shall mortify the pride

"Of man's superior breed;

"But chief myself I will enjoin,

"Awake at duty's call, "To show a love as prompt as thine

"To Him who gives me all."

Cowper.

3.— LUCY GRAY;
Or Solitude.
Oft have I heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

The Muses still, with Freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:—
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves.

Thomson.

2.—THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,

I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace

That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,

And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought,

To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fix'd considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But, with a chirrup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long,

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd;

Beau trotted far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd,

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, " The world," I cried,

"Shall hear of this thy deed; "My dog shall mortify the pride

"Of man's superior breed;

"But chief myself I will enjoin,

"Awake at duty's call, "To show a love as prompt as thine

"To Him who gives me all."

Cowper.

3.— LUCY GRAY;
Or Solitude.
Oft have I heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night

"You to the town must go; "And take a lantern, child to light

"Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do;

"'Tis scarcely afternoon— "The minster-clock has just struck two,

"And yonder is the Moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;

He plied his hook; and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept—and turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet;" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks one by one, Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

Wordsworth.

4.—BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

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