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And the moon, with slant-up beam,
Makes our starting faces gleam.
Lovers below will stare at the sight,
And talk of the double moon last night.

What a lovely motion now,
Smoothing on like lady's brow!
Over land and sea we go,
Over tops of mountains,
Through the blue and the golden glow,
And the rain's white fountains.

What a pleasure 'tis to be
Sailing onward smilingly;
Not an effort, not a will,
Yet proceeding swiftly still!
'Tis to join in one sensation
Business both and contemplation;

Active, without toil or stress;
Passive, without listlessness.

Now we pierce the chilly shroud
Of a sight-enfolding cloud;
And could almost crowd together,
As at home in wintery weather:
Now we issue forth to light,
With a swift-eyed scorning;
And with gently stooping flight
Slide us down the sunbeams bright,
And travel towards the morning.

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On the 28th of September, 1817.

It is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling, and full of cheer;
The sun has a 'sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.

The banks of Avon must look well to day; Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure ;

The river must run-bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that roek at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes,
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

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And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the house's side?
As if I could not in a minute, rest
In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with it's wealth of books?

'Autumn there, Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none; Nor yet that in it's all-productive air Was born Humanity's divinest son,

It is not that I


That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one, Shakspeare; nor yet,-oh no,—that here I miss Souls, not unworthy to be named with his :

No; but it is that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,*
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art; a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age, one tune they bore;
MARIAN,—who makes my heart and very rhymes

run o'er.

* Pershore or Pearshore, on the Avon ; so named from it's quantity of pears.

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