Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?

Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets;

With a look of such earnestness often will stand, You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruit and her flowers,

Old Adam will smile at the pains that have

made,

Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will

teem,

And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream.

Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay;

He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there:

The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.

Now farewell, Old Adam! when low thou art laid,

May one blade of grass spring up over thy head;

And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a

tree.

1803.

LINES

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up

With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty unison of streams!

Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale ;-this inland Depth

In peace is roaring like the Sea;

Yon star upon the mountain-top

Is listening quietly.

Sad was I even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!*
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

* Importuna e grave salma.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

And many thousands now are sad-
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-

That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return ?—
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?

1806.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

(ADDRESSED TO SIR GEORGE H. BEAUMONT, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.)

1824.

O FOR a dirge! But why complain ?
Ask rather a triumphal strain
When FERMOR's race is run;
A garland of immortal boughs

To bind around the Christian's brows,
Whose glorious work is done.

We pay a high and holy debt;
No tears of passionate regret
Shall stain this votive lay;

Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief
That flings itself on wild relief

When Saints have passed away.

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,
For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear: