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Lord! would men let me alone,

And, pleasing a man's self, none other to What an over-happy one

displease.

O my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
Princess of rivers, how I love

Upon thy flowery banks to lie,

And view thy silver stream,
When gilded by a Summer's beam!
And in it all thy wanton fry
Playing at liberty,
And, with my angle, upon them,

The all of treachery

I ever learned industriously to try!

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,

The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine;
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine, much purer, to compare;
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,

Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;

Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit,

And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

O my beloved rocks, that rise

To awe the earth and brave the skies!
From some aspiring mountain's crown
How dearly do I love,

Giddy with pleasure, to look down;

And, from the vales, to view the noble heights above;

O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat,
And all anxieties, my safe retreat;
What safety, privacy, what true delight,
In the artificial night

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O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side

Of thine enmossed realms! O thou, to whom Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom Their ripened fruitage; yellow-girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn;

The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding

year

All its completions-be quickly near,

By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine!

Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit

To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells

For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,

And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peep

ing;

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown!
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers

And through whole solemn hours dost sit A ram goes bleating! Winder of the horn,

and hearken

The dreary melody of bedded reeds

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth,
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!

By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

When snouted wild-boars, routing tender corn, Anger our huntsmen! Breather round our farms,

To keep off mildews, and all weather harms!
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors!
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge-see,
Great son of Dryope,

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With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bend- But health all seek, and joy,

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THE BELFRY PIGEON.

69

Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy!

I saw that all was good,

And how we might glean up delight All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood shade,

And all day long has work to do,
Nor is of aught afraid.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;

The green shoots grow above their heads, And I often watch him as he springs,

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Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight

moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning

light,

When the child is waked with "nine at night,"

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,—
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;

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