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Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart :
I look-the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.
O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
Your sound my heart of
It robs my heart of rest.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or chuse another tree
Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chain'd!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustain'd;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.
Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,
Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.
The man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know Such happiness as I have known to-day.
At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes,
Poor Outcast return-to receive thee once more