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Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,
Cannot refer to any standard law

Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,—
It forces us in summer skies to mourn,
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.

Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale,
And cannot speak it: the first page I read
Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed
Among the breakers; 'twas a quiet eve,
The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave
An untumultuous fringe of silver foam
Along the flat brown sand; I was at home
And should have been most happy,-but I saw
Too far into the sea, where every maw

The greater on the less feeds evermore.—
But I saw too distinct into the core
Of an eternal fierce destruction,

And so from happiness I far was gone.
Still am I sick of it, and though, to-day,
I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay
Of periwinkle and wild strawberry,

Still do I that most fierce destruction see,-
The Shark at savage prey, -the Hawk at pounce,—
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,

Ravening a Worm,-Away, ye horrid moods!
Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them


You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell

To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church,

Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.


"I have enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, beautiful enough to make me content."


ERE all the summer could I stay,
For there's a Bishop's Teign,
And King's Teign,

And Coomb at the clear Teign's head;
Where, close by the stream,

You may have your cream,

All spread upon barley bread.



There's Arch Brook,

And there's Larch Brook,

Both turning many a mill;
And cooling the drouth
Of the salmon's mouth,
And fattening his silver gill.


There's a wild wood,

A mild hood,

To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
Where the golden furze,

With its green, thin spurs,
Doth catch at the maiden's gown.


There's Newton Marsh,

With its spear-grass harsh,--

A pleasant summer level;

Where the maidens sweet

Of the Market street,

Do meet in the dark to revel.


There's Barton rich,

With dyke and ditch,

And hedge for the thrush to live in

And the hollow tree

For the buzzing bee,

And a bank for the wasp to hive in.

And O and O,


The daisies blow,

And the primroses are waken'd;

And the violets white

Sit in silver light,

And the green buds are long in the spike end.


Then who would go

Into dark Soho,

And chatter with dank-hair'd critics,

When he can stay

For the new-mown hay,

And startle the dappled crickets?

"There's a bit of doggerel; you would like a bit of botheral."


HERE be you going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket?


Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it ?


I love your hills and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating:

But oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!


I'll put your basket all safe in a nook; Your shawl I'll hang on a willow; And we will sigh in the daisy's eye, And kiss on a grass-green pillow


(June, July, August, 1818.)


HE town, the churchyard, and the

setting sun,

The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,

Though beautiful, cold—strange—as in a dream,
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.

The short-lived paly Summer is but won
From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam;
Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam.
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done:
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
Sickly imagination and sick pride

Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow ! hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.

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