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Could those few pleasant days again appear,

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Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
what here we call our life is such,

But no

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

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Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,° (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar, And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed— Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 105 Yet O, the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.


My boast is not, that I deduce my birth°
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise -
The son of parents passed into the skies.

And now,
farewell Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done,
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.






THERE is a field, through which I often pass
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,"
Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighb'ring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;



Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourne,
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scooped, I judge, in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.



Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor Autumn yet had brushed from every spray, With her chill hand the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack;

Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,


With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats,
With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.

The sun, accomplishing his early march,

His lamp now planted on Heaven's topmost arch, 30 When, exercise and air my only aim,

And heedless whither, to that field I came,

Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound


Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dinglederry rang.

Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom pressed


The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest;
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
All seemed so peaceful, that, from them conveyed,
To me their peace by kind contagion spread.

But when the huntsman with distended cheek, 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, 45 Though not a hound from whom it burst appeared, The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;

But, recollecting with a sudden thought,


That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,
They gathered close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again - but knew not what to think.

The man to solitude accustomed long Perceives in everything that lives a tongue, Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,



How glad they catch the largess of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of every locomotive kind;

Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name,

That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame-
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears;

He spells them true by intuition's light,
And needs no glossary to set him right.

This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next.

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Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined Stamped on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seemed as lawyers o'er a doubt. Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academic tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, addressed.


"Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent


In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise,

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