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I may not vilely prostitute to those

Whose infants owe them less Than the poor caterpillar owes

Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing

Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
A second time to be a mother,

Without the mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
O’er the growing sense to roll,

The mother of your infant's soul !
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides

His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,

A moment turned his awful face away;
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet

New influences in your being rose,
Blest intuitions and communions fleet
With living Naturc, in her joys and woes !

Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty !
O beautiful! O Nature's child !
'Twas thence you hailed the platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell !
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure,
Thence learn’d you that heroic measure.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name

Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,
And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, Power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope

And dire remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks bebind.

But me thy gentle nand will lead
At morning through the accustomed mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat ;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds,

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole !
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,

Aloof, with hermit-eye i scan

The present works of present man-
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile !




A MOUNT, not wearisonie and bare and steep,

But a green mountain variously up-piled, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Or colored lichens with slow oozing weep;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; And ’mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash; Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be

guiled, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy cliff above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb:

Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, E’en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should

bless The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound)

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,

Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart; arm linked in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag;

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamored sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;

And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale !

Together thus the world's vain turmoil left, Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine,

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood,
While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed :
Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss !

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ;
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains

Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frost of age,
And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime ;

And from the stirring world up-lifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply)
There, while the prospect through the gazing eye

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole: Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee, honored youth !

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

LINES TO W. L. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful

And I have many friends who hold me dear;

L---! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which


miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie

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