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Developing the mountains, leaves, and flow'rs,

And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the saunt'ring hours

With a calm languor, which, though to the eye

Idlesse it seems, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live,

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die :
It hath no flatt'rers; vanity can give
No hollow aid ; alone-Man with his GOD must strive.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ;This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.



But, 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ;

Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ;-
This is to be alone; this--this is solitude !


Is it not better, then, to be alone,

And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,

Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,

Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,

Kissing its cries away as these awake;-
Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear?

I live not in myself, but I become

Portion of that around me; and to me


High mountains are a feeling, but the hum

Of human cities, torture : I can see

Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,

Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part

Of me and of my soul, as I of them ?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart

With a pure passion ? should I not contemn

All objects, if compared with these ? and stem
A tide of suff'ring, rather than forego

Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.

may close this part of the subject with his feeling address to the ocean:

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Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll !

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control

Stops with the shore ;---upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save bis own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and unknown,


His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields

Are not a spoil for him-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields:

For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,

And howling, to his Gods ; where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
Thou dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals;

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;--

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free,

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey

The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou,

Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now!


Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublimeThe image of Eternity—the throne

Of the Invisible: even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ;
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy

I wanton'd with thy breakers--they to me.
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea

Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear;

For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

But the Poet not only sees beauty in nature, he is also master of the feelings and passions. He is thus described :

The poet in a golden age was born,

With golden stars above,
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The love of love. We may expect in him, therefore, all the feelings intensified. Look at Byron in this way. See how softly he touches the feeling of sadness :

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ?

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,

And be alone on earth, as I am now.

Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed :

Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed,
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloyed.

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But ever and anon of griefs subdued

There comes a token, like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ;

And slight withal may be the things which bring

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's eve or spring-
A flow'r--the wind-the ocean-which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.


O Time! the beautifier of the dead,

Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled

Time! the corrector where our judgments err.
The test of truth, love-sole philosopher,
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,

Which never loses though it doth defer:

Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift.
I may introduce also the touching lines on the death of
Kirke White, from English Bards and Scotch Reviewers :-

Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just wav'd its joyous wing,
The spoilers came, and all thy promised fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When science self-destroyed her fav'rite son.
Yes ! she indulged too much thy fond pursuit;
She sow'd the seed, but death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the fatal blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more thro' rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quiver'd in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion that impelled the steel,
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop from his bleeding breast.

(To be continued.)


, NOMENA. By LEO H. GRINDON. 3rd edition.' Cloth extra, 6s. 6d., free by Post.

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