And, hugging close, we will not feare Lust entering here;

Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot,

Or trouble not. Here needs no court for our request, Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to feare the frowne Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,

There all are kings. And for a while lye here concealed, To be revealed, Next, at that great platonick yeere, And then meet here. HERRICK.

LINES.

WRITTEN AT GRASMERE, ON TIDINGS OF THE APPROACHING DEATH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX.

LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone,

A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale; -this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.