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O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band;
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
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!
A Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
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?”
If we, who thus together roam
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny:
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
The voice was soft, and she who spake
The very sound of courtesy:
THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men,
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;
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
A Convent, even a hermit's Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;
Is of the grave; and of austere