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Cowering befide her rifted cell,
As if intent on magic spell ;—
Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather,
Still fit upon Helm Crag together!
From "The Waggoner," Canto I.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL
Upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-House) on the
Rude is this edifice, and thou haft feen
The new-dropped lamb finds fhelter from the wind.
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
He makes his Summer couch, and here at noon
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,
For their own fakes, but for the fields and hills
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For paffions that were not my own, and think (At random, and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.