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EEN fitful gusts are whispering here and there
The stars look very cold about the sky,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
O one who has been long in city pent,
to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
Catching the notes of Philomel,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
That falls through the clear ether silently.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
THE poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the grasshopper's — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
OOD Kosciusko! thy great name alone
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver
throne. It tells me too, that on a happy day,
When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
APPY is England ! I could be content
To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit úpon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters.