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The wren its crest of fibred fire

With his rich bronze compared, While many a youngling's songful sire His acorn'd twiglets shared.

The lark, above, sweet tribute paid,
Where clouds with light were riven;
And true-love sought his blue-bell'd shade,
"To bless the hour of heav'n."

E'en when his stormy voice was loud,
And guilt quaked at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud
The poor a shelter found.

Dead Oak, thou liv'st! Thy smitten hands, The thunder of thy brow,

Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands; And tyrants hear thee NOW!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspired by thy renown,

Shall future patriots rise to fame,

And many a sun go down.

LINES

ON SEEING UNEXPECTEDLY A NEW CHURCH, WHILE WALKING,

ON THE SABBATH, IN OLD-PARK WOOD, NEAR SHEFFIELD.

FROM Shirecliffe, o'er a silent sea of trees,
When evening waned o'er Wadsley's cottages,
I look'd on Loxley, Rivilin, and Don,
While at my side stood truth-loved Pemberton ;
And wonder'd, far beneath me, to behold

A golden spire, that glow'd o'er fields of gold.
Out of the earth it rose, with sudden power,
A bright flame, growing heavenward, like a flower,
Where erst nor temple stood, nor holy psalm
Rose to the mountains in the day of calm.
There, at the altar, plighted hearts may sigh;
There, side by side, how soon their dust may lie!
Then carven stones the old, old tale will tell,
That saddens joy with its brief chronicle,
Till Time, with pinions stolen from the dove,
Gently erase the epitaph of love;
While rivers sing, on their unwearied way,
The song that but with earth can pass away,

That brings the tempest's accents from afar,
And breathes of woodbines where no woodbines are!

* The unequalled lecturer on the drama.

Yet deem not that Affection can expire,

Though earth and skies shall melt in fervent fire;
For truth hath written, on the stars above-
"Affection cannot die, if God is Love!"
Whene'er I pass a grave with moss o'ergrown,
Love seems to rest upon the silent stone,
Above the wreck of sublunary things,
Like a tired angel sleeping on his wings.

RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING.

No name hast thou! lone streamlet

That lovest Rivilin.

Here, if a bard may christen thee,

I'll call thee "Ribbledin;"

Here, where first murmuring from thine urn,
Thy voice deep joy expresses;

And down the rock, like music, flows
The wildness of thy tresses.

Here, while beneath the umbrage
Of Nature's forest bower,

Bridged o'er by many a fallen birch,

And watch'd by many a flower,

To meet thy cloud-descended love,
All trembling, thou retirest-
Here will I murmur to thy waves
The sad joy thou inspirest.

Dim world of weeping mosses!
A hundred years ago,
Yon hoary-headed holly tree

Beheld thy streamlet flow:

See how he bends him down to hear
The tune that ceases never!

Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems,
While thou art young for ever.

Wildest and lonest streamlet !
Grey oaks, all lichen'd o'er !
Rush-bristled isles! ye ivied trunks
That marry shore to shore !
And thou, gnarl'd dwarf of centuries,

Whose snaked roots twist above me!

O for the tongue or pen of Burns,
To tell you how I love ye!

Would that I were a river,

To wander all alone

Through some sweet Eden of the wild,

In music of my own;

And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew,
Distill'd o'er mountains hoary,

Return unto my home in heav'n
On wings of joy and glory!

Or that I were the lichen,

That, in this roofless cave,

(The dim geranium's lone boudoir,)
Dwells near the shadow'd wave,

And hears the breeze-bow'd tree-tops sigh,
While tears below are flowing,
For all the sad and lovely things
That to the grave are going!

O that I were a primrose,

To bask in sunny air!

Far, far from all the plagues that make
Town-dwelling men despair!

Then would I watch the building-birds,
Where light and shade are moving,
And lovers' whisper, and love's kiss,
Rewards the loved and loving!

Or that I were a skylark,

To soar and sing above,

Filling all hearts with joyful sounds,

And my own soul with love!

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