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In a half-sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark,
That singest like an angel in the clouds!






But now the gentle dewfall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled
From bodings that have wellnigh wearied me
I find myself upon the brow, and pause,
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society,-
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful that by nature's quietness


And solitary musings all my heart

Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



OW soothing is that sound of far-off wheels Under the golden sheen of the harvest-moon! In the shade-checkered road it half reveals

A homeward-wending group, with hearts in tune
To thankful merriment; father and boy,
And maiden with her gleanings on her head;
And the last wagon's rumble heard with joy
In the kitchen with the ending-supper spread.
But while I listening stand, the sound hath ceased;
And hark, from many voices lustily

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The harvest-home, the prelude to the feast,

In measured bursts is pealing loud and high;

Soon all is still again beneath the bright
Full moon, that guides me home this autumn night.

Henry Alford.

Netley Abbey.


FALLEN pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;

But when the winds slow wafted from the main,
Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain,
Come hollow to my ear, I meditate
On this world's passing pageant, and the lot
Of those who once majestic in their prime
Stood smiling at decay, till, bowed by time
Or injury, their early boast forgot,

They may have fallen like thee! Pale and forlorn,
Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,
They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn
This short-lived scene of vanity and woe;
Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear
The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!
William Lisle Bowles.




Netley Abbey,

on the neighboring isle,

The woods of Binstead shade as fair a pile, Where sloping meadows fringe the shores with green, A river of the ocean rolls between,

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Whose murmurs, borne on sunny winds, disport
Through oriel windows and a cloistered court;
O'er hills so fair, o'er terraces so sweet,
The sea comes twice each day to kiss their feet;

Where sounding caverns mine the garden bowers,
Where groves intone, where many an ilex towers,
And many a fragrant breath exhales from fruits and

And lowing herds and feathered warblers there
Make mystic concords with repose and prayer;
Mixed with the hum of apiaries near,

The mill's far cataract, and the sea-boy's cheer,
Whose oars beat time to litanies at noon,
Or hymns at complin by the rising moon;
Where, after chimes, each chapel echoes round
Like one aerial instrument of sound,
Some vast harmonious fabric of the Lord's.

Nicholas Thirning Moile.




HOU art noble yet, for thy ruins recall
The remembrance of vanished glory;

And Time, which has levelled the ancient hall,
Still spares thee to tell of its story.

O'er thy crumbling arch the sculptured shield,
In spite of spoil's bereavement,

Is left as a relic, on which are revealed

The insignia of a bold achievement.

When first they were graven, to honor's eye
Their emblazonment shone forth brightly;
But now the rustic passes them by,

And thinks of their legend lightly.

It boots but little. To rise, and fall,
And leave but a wreck to outlive them,
Is, as it should be, the lot of all

Who trust in what pride can give them.

There are thoughts more touching than those which rise
From pride's departed splendor;

And thine is connected with countless ties,
Which waken ideas more tender.

The heart, with its griefs, joys, hopes, and fears,
Changes little in passions and powers;
And theirs, who sojourned here in distant years,
Cherished feelings the same as ours!

For they lived, and they loved like us; and this
Was their home, in pain and pleasure;

And the best of them hoarded here their bliss,
As the miser his hidden treasure.

And now, when the trappings of glory fade,
And its sunniest heights are shrouded,

The beams of affection, that brightened its shade,
Are to Memory's eye unclouded.

To the heart, to the heart, we must turn at last,
For all that endures the longest;

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