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7. For Hope with loveliest visions soothes my mind,

That even in Man, Life's wingèd power,
When comes again the na hour,

Shall on heaven-wandering feet,
In undecaying youth,
Spring to the blessed seat,

Where round the fields of Truth
The fiery Essences for ever feed;

And o'er the ambrosial mead
The breezes of serenity,
Silent and soothing, glide for ever by::

8.

There, Priest of Nature! dost thou shine,
Newton! a King among the Kings divine.
Whether, with Harmony's mild force,

He guides along its course
The axle of some beauteous star on high ;

Or gazing, in the spring
Ebullient with creative energy,
Feels his pure breast with rapturous joy possessed,
Inebriate in the holy ecstasy.

9.

I may not call thee mortal then, my soul!
Immortal longings lift thee to the skies :
Love of thy native home inflames thee now,

With pious madness wise.

Know then thyself! expand thy wings divine !
Soon, mingled with thy fathers, thou shalt shine
A star amid the starry throng,
A God the Gods

among LONDON, 1802.

GOOSEBERRY-PIE.

A PINDARIC ODE.

1.

GOOSEBERRY-PIE is best.
Full of the theme, O Muse, begin the song!

What though the sunbeams of the West

Mature within the Turtle's breast
Blood glutinous, and fat of verdant hue;
What though the Deer bound sportively along
O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest, —

Give them their honors due ;
But Gooseberry-pie is best.

2.

Behind his oxen slow

The patient Ploughman plods;
And as the Sower followed by the clods,
Earth's genial womb received the living seed.

The rains descend, the grains they grow :
Saw

ye the vegetable ocean
Roll its green ripple to the April gale?
The golden waves, with multitudinous motion,
Swell o'er the summer vale ?

N

VOL. II.

3.

It flows through Alder banks along
Beneath the copse that hides the hill;
The gentle stream you cannot see,
You only hear its melody,

The stream that turns the Mill.
Pass on a little way, pass on,

And you shall catch its gleam anon ; And hark, the loud and agonizing groan

That makes its anguish known, Where, tortured by the Tyrant Lord of Meal,

The Brook is broken on the Wheel !

4.

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale!
On the white bosom of the sail,
Ye Winds, enamoured, lingering lie!
Ye Waves of ocean, spare the bark,

Ye Tempests of the sky!
From distant realms she comes to bring

The sugar Pie.
For this on Gambia's arid side
The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood;
And Beelzebub beholds with pride

His darling planter brood.

for my

5. First in the spring thy leaves were seen, Thou beauteous bush, so

rly green!

Soon ceased thy blossoms’ little life of love.
O safer than the gold-fruit-bearing tree,
The glory of that old Hesperian grove !

No Dragon does there need for thee
With quintessential sting to work alarms,
Prepotent guardian of thy fruitage fine,

Thou vegetable Porcupine ! -
And didst thou scratch thy tender arms,

O Jane! that I should dine ?

6.

The flour, the sugar, and the fruit,
Commingled well, how well they suit !

And they were well bestowed.
O Jane! with truth I praise your Pie;
And will not you, in just reply,
Praise

my

Pindaric Ode?

EXETER, 1799.

TO A BEE.

1.

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!

As abroad I took my early way,
Before the Cow from her resting-place
Had risen up, and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

2. Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!

After the fall of the Cistus flower,
When the Primrose-of-evening was ready to burst,

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee !

3.
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!

Late and early at employ ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent,

What thy winter will never enjoy;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee !

1.
Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!

What is the end of thy toil:
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,

Thy master comes for the spoil ;
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee !

WESTBURY, 1799.

TO A SPIDER.

1. SPIDER! thou need'st not run in fear about

To shun my curious eyes;

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