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And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;

An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.

Child of the Year! that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
And cheerful when the day's begun
As morning Leveret,

* Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Dear thou shalt be to future men
thou not in vain,

As in old time;

Art Nature's Favorite.

See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.

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A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound: Then all at once the air was still,

And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless Oaks towered high above,

I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;

A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstones drop,
The withered leaves all skip and hop,
There's not a breeze
no breath of air
Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.




STRANGER, 'tis a sight of pleasure
When the wings of genius rise,
Their ability to measure

With great enterprise ;
But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies!

Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms!

There, he wheels in downward mazes;
Sunward now his flight he raises,

Catches fire, as seems, and blazes

With uninjured plumes!



Traveller, 'tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage
Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the Nations
See, when Commonwealth-vexations
Lift men from their native stations,
Like yon tuft of fern;

Such it is, and not a Haggard
Soaring on undaunted wing;
'Tis by nature dull and laggard,
A poor helpless Thing,

Dry, and withered, light and yellow;
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait- and you shall see how hollow?
Its endeavouring!

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