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But then, the late weather, I think, had it's merits, And might have induced you to look at one's spirits; We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own; But the rains might have led you to walk out of

town;

And what made us think your desertion still stran

ger, The roads were so bad, there was really some dan

ger ; At least where I live; for the nights were so

groping, The rains made such wet, and the paths are so

sloping, That few, unemboldened by youth or by drinking, Came down without lanthorns,-nor then without

shrinking And really, to see the bright spots come and go, As the path rose or fell, was a fanciful shew.

Like fairies they seemed, pitching up from their

nooks, And twinkling upon us their bright little looks ; Or if there appeared but a single, slow light, It seemed Polyphemus, descending by night To walk in his anguish about the green places, And see where his mistress lay dreaming of Acis.

I fancy him now, coming just where she sleeps ;
He parts the close hawthorns, and hushes, and

creeps ;The moon slips from under the dark clouds, and

throws

A light, through the leaves, on her smiling repose. There, there she lies, bower'd ;-a slope for her bed; One branch, like a hand, reaches over her head; Half naked, half shrinking, with side-swelling grace, A crook's 'twixt her bosom, and crosses her face,

I

The crook of her shepherd ;--and close to her lips Lies the Pan-pipe he blows, which in sleeping she

sips; The giant's knees totter, with passions diverse; Ah, how can he bear it! Ah, what could be worse! He's ready to cry out, for anguish of heart; And tears himself off, lest she wake with a start.

a

SONNETS.

DESCRIPTION OF HAMPSTEAD.

A STEEPLE issuing from a leafy rise,
With farmy fields in front, and sloping green,
Dear Hampstead, is thy southern face serene,
Silently smiling on approaching eyes.
Within, thine ever-shifting looks surprise,
Streets, hills, and dells, trees overhead now seen,
Now down below, with smoking roofs between,-
A village, revelling in varieties.
Then northward what a range, with heath and pond,
Nature's own ground; woods that let mansions

through,

And cottaged vales with pillowy fields beyond,
And clump of darkening pines, and prospects blue,
And that clear path through all, where daily meet
Cool cheeks, and brilliant eyes, and morn-elastic

feet.

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