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I heard a Stockdove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day.
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but coo'd-and coo'd;
And somewhat pensively he woo'd:
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the Song, the Song for me!

4.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a Man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

5.

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's

Water.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The

green

field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Plough-boy is whooping-anon—anon :

There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

6.

THE SMALL CELANDINE.

There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,

That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,

In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

See Page 22 in the first Volume.

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