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O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a
I am glad for him, blind as he is! all the while If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!
A Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs - they care not
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward."
"WHAT you are stepping westward?" 'Twould be a wildish destiny,
If we, who thus together roam
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
The voice was soft, and she who spake
The very sound of courtesy:
Its power was felt; and while my eye
THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men,
sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And every thing unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,.
For fear and melancholy meet;
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it? - I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
Was moved; and in this way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest.
A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these:
Is of the grave; and of austere