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RICHMOND.

THAMES swept along in summer pride,
Sparkling beneath his verdant edge;
With frolic kiss, as half denied,

Light airs were glancing o'er the tide,
Or whispering in the secret sedge.

Cheerful the landscape's sunny green,

Yet still, in pensive mood reclined,
Pondering of things to be, or been,
I shrank at many a visioned scene
Of fear, before; of grief, behind.

The insect tribes, but newly born,

Were flaunting in the awakening ray;
In me they woke no touch of scorn;
I saw them frail, but more to mourn
The kindred doom of man's decay.

For here, of old, his booty won,
The Dane caroused in barbarous glee,
Or Roman veteran, toil-foredone,
Lay stretched beneath the westering sun,
In dreams of pleasant Italy.

Or floating by, in gallant show,

Gay beauty glanced at monarch's jest,
Nor marked where, high above the prow,
Mid mirth and wine, and music's flow,

Sat Change, a dark and threatening guest.

Their mirth is sped; their gravest theme
Sleeps with the things that cease to be;
Their longest life, a morning gleam;
A bubble bursting on the stream,

Then swept to Time's unfathomed sea.

Yes! all, beneath or change or chance,
And passing, like the passing river,
The wassail shout, the dreamer's trance,
And monarch's jest, and beauty's glance,
Were human all, and gone forever!

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS.

John Kenyon.

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Vain thought! - Yet be as now thou art,

That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such as did once the poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later ditty,

Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar;
And pray
that never child of song
May know that poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
The evening darkness gathers round,
By virtue's holiest powers attended.

William Wordsworth.

Richmond, Yorkshire.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build, but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away,

For see, they would pin him below

In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a fear and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before,

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the
shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 't is in vain :

Who hide in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! They have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve.

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace, peace! is the watchword,—the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold head and around the dark stone
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the

skies.

Herbert Knowles.

Ribbledin, the River.

RIBBLEDIN; OR, THE CHRISTENING.

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,

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