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Clouds that love through air to haster.,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride – How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families ! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Gray-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slurnbers — by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over Desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands, Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal ; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul.

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Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the Wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering :
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The Warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the Band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

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Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair,
By Faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.


THESE Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the
Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and for the
sake of the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabit-
ant of a Cottage in which he had taken refuge. The House
fell under a curse, and the Spirit of the Youth, it was believed,
haunted the Valley where the crime had been committed.

Beside a Grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like Fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right
of your fair household, Father Knight,
Methinks you take small heed !
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The Shadow of a Danish Boy.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over Hill and Hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.
Cried they, “Your Father loves to roam:
Enough for him to find
The empty House when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind !"
Sing, mournfully, on! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

In clouds above, the Lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the Bird
Did never build her nest.
No Beast, no Bird hath here his home,
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers; – to other dells
Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather ;
They run, and cry, “Nay, let us die,
And let us die together.”
A Lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie,

A Spirit of noon-day is he;
He seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping Shepherd shall he be,
Nor Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 't is fresh and blue
As budding pines in Spring ;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.


The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
As through the glen it rambles,

3 moan o'er moss and stone, For those seren lovely Campbells.

A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
- They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his fowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.





Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade,
I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed ? How they in sprightly dance are worn

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give, Your portraits still may reach the heart

And there for gentle pleasure live; While Fancy ranging with free scope

Shall on some lovely Alien set A name with us endeared to hope,

To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace: A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,

A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmed mind

Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,

A new Forget-me-not.

From earth to heaven with motion fleet

From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet

And there a Shepherd's weather-glass ;

And haply some familiar name

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant
Whose presence cheers the drooping frame

Of English Emigrant.

Gazing she feels its power beguile

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;
Alas! that meek, that tender smile

Is but a harbinger of death:
And pointing with a feeble hand

She says, in faint words by sighs broken,
Bear for me to my native land

This precious flower, true love's last token.

Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.



A PILGRIM, when the summer day
Had closed upon his weary way,
A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
But him the haughty Warder spurned;
And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such covert as the field
Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,
Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,
Fixed on a Star his upward eye;
Then, from the tenant of the sky
He turned, and watched with kindred look,
A Glow-worm in a dusky nook,
Apparent at his feet.

The murmur of a neighbouring stream
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
He recognised the earth-born Star,
And That which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness !) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb, there came
Intelligible sonnds.

Much did it taunt the humble Light
That now,

when day was filed, and night Hushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes,

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Stranger, 't is no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage

Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the Nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations,

Like yon Tuft of FERN;

When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked – the rivers backward ran That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! Fire raged, — and, when the spangled floor Of apcient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy Souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly ’mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth!

Such it is; the aspiring Creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless Thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow ;-
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait - and you shall see how hollow

Its endeavouring !"


- Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea: Waking at morn he murmured not ; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.

By their floating Mill,

That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the

Thames !
The platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.


From the shore come the notes

To their Mill where it floats, To their House and their Mill tethered fast; To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past.


“Who but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure

With great enterprise ;

In sight of the Spires,

All alive with the fires Of the Sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free
While they dance on the calm river's breast,

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them, — what matter? 't is theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.


The Showers of the Spring

Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; Each Wave, one and t’ other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!




Frowns are on every Muse's face,

Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace

The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.

Even her own Needle that subdued

Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,

Like station could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's child,

A living Lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled

To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice,

“ Bard ! moderate your ire; “Spirits of all degrees rejoice

“In presence of the Lyre. “ The Minstrely of Pygmean bands,

" Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, " Have shells to fit their tiny hands

" And suit their slendor lays.

Some, still more delicate of ear,

“Have lutes (believe my words) “ Whose framework is of gossamer,

“ While sunbeams are the chords.

Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court,

“Made vocal by their brushing wings, “And sullen Gromnes will learn to sport

“ Around its polished strings:

“Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear,

“While in her lonely bower she tries
“To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,

“By fanciful embroideries.

“Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite,

“Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ; “Though ’mid the stars the Lyre shine bright

, “Love stoops as fondly as he soars."


As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near,

The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,

The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,

Or second my weak Muse ?

I rather think, the gentle Dove

Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love

Have dared to keep aloof,
That I, a bard of hill and dale,

Have caroll'd, fancy free,
As if nor dove, nor nightingale,

Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,

Sweet Bird ! to do me wrong;
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere

The spirit of my song:

grove, and by the calm fireside,
Love animates my lyre;
That coo again ! — 't is not to chide,

I feel, but to inspire.


Among the dwellings framed by birds

In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snu

may compare.

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