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I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there:-
But he is blest, and I lament no more,

A wise good man contented to be poor.

The Skylark.

BIRD of the wilderness,

Blythesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth;
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

CRABBE.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ;

Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be;
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

Catharina.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

SHЕ came—she is gone—we have met

And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain ; Catharina has fled like a dream,

So vanishes pleasure, alas! But has left a regret and esteem

That will not so suddenly pass.

HOGG.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delayed

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charmed with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteemed

The work of my fancy the more,

And even to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is imbued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.

The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,

But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,
And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads!

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam,

She will have just the life she prefers,

With little to hope or to fear,
And our's would be pleasant as her's,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

COWPER.

Hymn to Diana.

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess, excellently bright.

BEN JONSON.

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