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XIX.

THE HAUNTED TREE.

ΤΟ

THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun

His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less
To overshade than multiply his beams

By soft reflection-grateful to the sky,

To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy

More ample than the time-dismantled Oak

Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use

Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
That Eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought

On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
Of panting Wood-nymph wearied of the chase.
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,

Approach - and, thus invited, crown with rest
The noon-tide hour: - though truly some there are
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid

This venerable Tree; for, when the wind

Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound (Above the general roar of woods and crags) Distinctly heard from far a doleful note!

As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed

Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,

By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost

Haunts this old Trunk; lamenting deeds of which
The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;

Not even a zephyr stirs ; the obnoxious Tree
Is mute, and, in his silence, would look down,
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,
On thy reclining form with more delight
Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale
Seem to participate, the whilst they view
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads

Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,

That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!

XX.

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER.

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The

green

field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

-anon

On the top of the bare hill; The Plough-boy is whooping There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

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XXI.

GIPSIES.

YET are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Of the whole Spectacle the same!

Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
-Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I
Have been a Traveller under open sky,

The

Much witnessing of change and cheer,

Yet as I left I find them here!

weary Sun betook himself to rest.

- Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,

Outshining like a visible God

The glorious path in which he trod.

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