Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour'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.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise
very few to love.

And

She dwelt among the untrodden ways.

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!

A Briton, even in love, should be

A subject, not a slave!

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,

Whose veil is unremoved

Till heart with heart in concord beats,

And the lover is beloved.

Minds that have nothing to confer

To

Find little to perceive.

Yes! thou art fair.

That kill the bloom before its time;

And blanch, without the owner's crime,

The most resplendent hair.

Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones.

But He is risen, a later star of dawn.

A Morning Exercise.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

And he is oft the wisest man,

Who is not wise at all.

Ibid.

The Oak and the Broom.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted.

The poet's darling.

Thou unassuming Commonplace

Of Nature.

To the Daisy.

Ibid.

To the same Flower.

Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees.

Ibid.

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight.

Nutting.

She was a phantom of delight.

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn. Ibid.

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.

The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command.

The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Ibid.

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound

Ibid.

Shall pass into her face. Three years she grew. That inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude.

I wandered lonely.

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Written in March.

A Youth to whom was given

So much of earth, so much of heaven. Ruth.

As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low.

Resolution and Independence. Stanza 4.

But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at
Ibid. Stanza 6.

all?

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:
By our own spirits we are deified:

We poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and

"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!

But something ails it now: the spot is cursed." Hart-Leap Well. Part ii.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Hart-Leap Well. Partii. Never to blend our pleasure, or our pride, With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Sensations sweet,

Ibid.

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.

Ibid.

Ibid.

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,

Ibid.

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.

Ibid.

Ibid.