Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colors !

Yet at times My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life Still most a stranger, most with naked heart At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then, When I remember thee, my earliest friend ! Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye: And boding evil yet still hoping good, Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes Sorrowed in silence! He who counts alone The beatings of the solitary heart, That being knows, how I have loved thee ever, Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee! Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl; Or when as now, on some delicious eve; We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward ; whose old

boughs, That hang above us in an arborous roof, Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads !

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, When with the joy of hope thou gav’st thine ear To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,

Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times.
Cope with the tempest's swell!

These various strains, Which I have framed in many a various mood, Accept, my brother ! and (for some perchance Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) If aught of error or intemperate truth Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!

INSCRIPTION

FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.

THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,

Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long un.

harmed
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the

Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send

up

cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount,
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou

may'st toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, Pilgrim, here ; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees !

'TIS true, Idoloclastes Satyrane !

(So call him, for so mingling blame with

praise,
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
Masking his birth-name, wont to character
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)
'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths,
And honoring with religious love the great
Of elder times, he hated to excess,
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,
The hollow puppets of a hollow age,
Ever idolatrous, and changing ever
Its worthless idols ! learning, power, and time,
(Too much of all) thus wasting with vain war
Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true,

of weary days, besieged him close,
Even to the gates and inlets of his life!
But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm,
And with a natural gladness, he maintained
The citadel unconquered, and in joy
Was strong to follow the delightful Muse.
For not a hidden path, that to the shades
Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads,
Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill
There issues from the fount of Hippocrene,
But he had traced it upward to its source,

Whole years

Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell,
Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled
Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,
Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,
The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,
He bade with lifted torch its starry walls
Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame
Of odorous lamps, tended by Saint and Sage.
O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts !
O studious Poet, eloquent for truth!
Philosopher! contemning wealth and death,
Yet docile, child-like, full of Life and Love !
Here, rather than on monumental stone,
This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes,
Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek.

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON.

In the June of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a visit to the author's cottage ; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower. WELL, they are gone, and here must I remain,

This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, mean

while,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ;

The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge ;—that branchless ash,
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long, lank weeds, *
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
Of the blue clay-stone.

Now, my friends emerge Beneath the wide wide Heaven ; and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined And hungered after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun ! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves !

Of long, lank weeds ] The asplenium scolopendrium called, in some countries, the Adder's Tongue, in others, the Hart's Tongue; but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial naine of the ophinglossum only.