Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart : I look-the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or chuse another tree Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chain'd! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustain'd; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb!-. Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear. The man who makes this feverish complaint POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, from her eyes. And the colours have all pass'd away Poor Outcast! return-to receive thee once more And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, Vol. II. |