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He may knock at the door,—we'll not let him in;
May drive at the windows,—we'll laugh at his din:
Let him seek his own home, wherever it be;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

By a Female Friend of Wordsworth.


One morning (raw it was and wet

A foggy day in winter-time) A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead: ,

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair;
She begged an alms like one in poor estate:

I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

"What is it," said I, " that you bear, "Beneath the covert of your cloak,

"Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard,

"A simple burden, Sir, a little singing bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,

"I had a son, who many a day "Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

"In Denmark he was cast away; "And I have travelled many miles to see

"If aught which he haii owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his;

"' Twas my son's bird: and neat and trim "He kept it; many voyages

"This singing-bird had gone with him: "When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind:

"From bodings, as might be, that hung upon Lis mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

"Had left it, to be watched and fed, "And pipe its song in safety;—there

"I found it when my son was dead: "And now, God help me for my little wit!

"I bear it with me, Sir:—he took so much delight in it."



We scatter seeds with careless hand
And dream we ne'er shall see them more;

But for a thousand years

Their fruit appearsj
In weeds that mar the land

Or healthful store.

The deeds we do—the words we say
Into still air they seem to fleet;

We count them ever past—

But they shall last—
In the dread judgment, they

And we shall meet!


The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew.
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene, where his melody charmed me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they;
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

The change both my heart and my fancy employs,
I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.



Mr mind to me a kingdom is;

Such perfect joy therein I find,
As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That world affords, or grows by kind:
Though much I want what most men have,
Yet doth my mind forbid me crave.


Content I live—this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice— I press to bear no haughty sway;

Look—what I lack my mind supplies. Lo! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers oft do fall;
I see how those that sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get—they toil—they spend with care:
Such care my mind could never bear.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;

I brook that is another's pain.
I fear no foe—I scorn no friend:
I dread no death—I fear no end.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;

I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poor—though much they have,

And I am rich—with little store.
They poor, I rich: they beg, I give:
They lack, I lend: they pine, I live.

I wish not what I have at will:

I wander not to seek for more: I like the plain; I climb no hill:

In greatest storm I sit on "shore, And laugh at those that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again. This is my choice; for why—I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

Ancient Songs.

I Remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday:—
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh,

To swallows on the wing.

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now;

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir-trees, dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance:

But now, 'tis little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.


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