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Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace

Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle, Proud to fill up each tall shining space

Round the lanthorn* that stood in the middle.
And GEORGE's head too; Heav'n screen him!
May he finish in peace his long reign?
And what did we when we had seen him?
Why-went round and saw him again.

A bell rang, announcing new pleasures,
A crowd in an instant prest hard,

Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures,
Round a door that led into the yard.
'Twas peopled all o'er in a minute,

As a white flock would cover a plain!
We had seen every soul that was in it,
Then we went round and saw them again.

But now came a scene worth the showing,
The fireworks! midst laughs and huzzas,
With explosions the sky was all glowing,

Then down stream'd a million of stars;
With a rush the bright rockets ascended,
Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain;
We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended,
Then-star'd at each other again.

There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd
To the tops of the trees and beyond;
And, what was most hugely admir'd,
They look'd all up-side-down in a pond!
The blaze scarce an eagle could bear;
And an owl had most surely been slain;
We return'd to the circle, and there-
And there we went round it again.

The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings.

'Tis not wisdom to love without reason,

Or to censure without knowing why: I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason, "O Life, 'tis thy picture," said I.

'Tis just thus we saunter along,

Months and years bring their pleasures or pain; We sigh midst the right and the wrong;

-And then we go round them again!

WRITTEN AT CLARE-HALL, HERTS.
JUNE 1804.

WELCOME silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief

While rapture's gushing tears descend;
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not for a world of gold

That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.
Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O heav'n permit that I
may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumult fly

With kindred feelings press my grave.

THE

WOODLAND HALLÓ.

(PERHAPS) ADAPTED FOR MUSIC.

In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,

I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
And kind is my lover hard by;

They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe.

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that

made

So much of a laugh or-Halló,

From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;
For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving
high,

And Echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,

As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the-Halló.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.

The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;

But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Halló.

BARNHAM WATER.

FRESH from the hall of Bounty sprung,
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The mid-day sun in all his pow'r

The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,

Where one small streamlet cross'd the way

What was it rous'd my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,

And never brook seem'd half so clear.
Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet,

Its shelving brink for rest was made, But every charm was incomplete,

For Barnham Water wants a shade.

There, faint beneath the fervid sun,
I gaz'd in ruminating mood;

For who can see the current run

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And snatch no feast of mental food?
Keep pure thy soul," it seem'd to say,

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Keep that fair path by wisdom trod, "That thou may'st hope to wind thy way "To fame worth boasting, and to God."

*On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, EustonHall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a corresponding season of the year

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