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Cowering befide her rifted cell,
From "The Waggoner," Canto I.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL
Upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-House) on the Iland at Grafmere.
Rude is this edifice, and thou haft feen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
The new-dropped lamb finds fhelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet fometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own household; nor, while from his bed,
A PASTORAL POEM.
If from the public way you turn your steps
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
No habitation there is feen; but fuch
As journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and ftones, and kites That overhead are failing in the sky.
It is, in truth, an utter folitude;
Nor fhould I have made mention of this dell,
Or for the Summer fhade. It was the firft,
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
On man, the heart of man, and human life.