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Part ii. xxxvi.

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Ecclesiastical Sonnets.

Part iii. v.

Walton's Book of Lives.

The feather, whence the pen

Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

The Tables Turned.

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books,

Or surely you 'll grow


Up! up! my Friend, and clear
Why all this toil and trouble?

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.



The Matron of Jedborough.

A remnant of uneasy light.

Sky Prospect. From the Plains of France. Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows,

That for oblivion take their daily birth

From all the fuming vanities of Earth.

A Poet's Epitaph.
St. 5.

One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave.

St. 10.

He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

St. 13.

The harvest of a quiet eye,

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Personal Talk.

St. 1.

Maidens withering on the stalk.

St. 3.

The gentle Lady married to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

St. 4.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

The Small Celandine.

[From Poems referring to the Period of Old Age.]

To be a Prodigal's Favorite, — then, worse truth, behold our lot!

A Miser's Pensioner,

To the Small Celandine.

[From Poems of the Fancy.]
Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think I read a book,
Only read perhaps by me.

Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm. St. 4.

The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.


But hushed be every thought that springs
From out the bitterness of things.

Intimations of Immortality.

St. 5.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

St. xi.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.


Book i.

The vision and the faculty divine.

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.

The good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.

Book ii.

This dull product of a scoffer's pen.

With battlements, that on their restless fronts
Bore stars.

Book iii.

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock


The intellectual power, through words and things
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way! *

Society became my glittering bride,
And airy hopes my children.

* Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way. The Borderers, Act iv.

Book iv.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise;
And inward self-disparagement affords
To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Book iv.

I have seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.

One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.

Book vi.

Spires whose silent fingers point to heaven.

Book vii.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows.

Wisdom married to immortal verse.

Book ix.

The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;

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