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LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in the grove I sat reclin'd,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 't is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and play'd

Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

WORDSWORTH.

[graphic]

DOMESTIC LOVE.

DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide ;
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,

That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side.

Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,

Shining along through banks with harebells dyed;

And many a bird to warble on the wing,

When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O love of loves!--to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key!

Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,

When the babes cling around their father's knee ;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.

Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed-for ever closed thy plume!

GEORGE CROLY

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LINES

LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT,

NAY, traveller! rest.

This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind.
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember.-He was one who owned

No common soul. In youth by Science nursed,
And led by Nature into a wild scene

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth

A favoured being, knowing no desire

Which genius did not hallow;-'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service: wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird,
Piping along the margin of the lake.
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,-how lovely 't is
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When Nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,

The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt

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