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ND homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

Guilt and Sorrow. Stanza 41.

The Child is father of the Man.* My Heart Leaps Up.

The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door.

Lucy Gray. Stanza 2.

A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

We are seven.

Drink, pretty creature, drink.

The Pet Lamb.

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his ne

ur's corn.

The Brothers. Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

To a Butterfly.

A noticeable man, with large gray eyes.

Stanzas written in Thomson. And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all.

The Oak and the Broom.

* The childhood shows the man
As morning shows the day.-Milton.

Paradise Regained. Book iv. Lire 220. She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.


A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye !
Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.


She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and oh !

The difference to me!


Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive. Poems founded on the Affections. xvi.

The bane of all that dread the devil.

The Idiot Boy.

Something between a hinderance and a help. Michael.

But He is risen, a later star of dawn.

A Morning Exercise. Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.


Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again.

The Solitary Reaper.

The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.


Because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.

Rob Roy's Grave. Stanza g.
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Floats double, swan and shadow ! Yarrow Unvisited.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.
Sonnets to National Independence and Liberty. Part i. vi.

Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind,
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies ;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

Ibid. Part i. viii.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart.

Ibid. Parti. xiv.

So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness.


We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspere spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.

Part i. xvi.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.


But all things else about her drawn
From Maytime and the cheerful Dawn.

She was a Phantom of Delight.

A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

She was a Phantom of Delight.
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command.

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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

To the Daisy.

Thou unassuming Commonplace

Of Nature.

To the same Floguer.

That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

I wandered Lonely.

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.


I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ;
Of him who walked in glory and in joy,
Following his plough, along the mountain-side.

Resolution and Independence. Stanza 7. * A jolly place,' said he, 'in times of old ! But something ails it now : the spot is cursed.'

Hart Leap Well. Port ii. Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.


Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Ibid. Ibid.

Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

Tintern Abbey.

That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.


That blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened.


The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.


The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite ; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.


But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.


Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her.


Nor greetings where no kindness is.

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