POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail, And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's, The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.

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, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.

Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more The house of thy Father will open its door, And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.

INSCRIPTION For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.

If thou in the dear love of some one friend Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.—St. Herbert hither came And here, for many seasons, from the world Remov'd, and the affections of the world He dwelt in solitude. He living here, This island's sole inhabitant! had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd As his own soul; and when within his cave Alone he knelt before the crucifix While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he:—as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour.

INSCRIPTION For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet as it is Do take it in good part; for he, the poor Vitruvius of our village, had no help From the great city; never on the leaves Of red Morocco folio saw display'd The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. It is a homely pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern, A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains, and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep Panting beneath the burthen of their wool Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep, Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone. Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone? Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid. —These died in peace each with the other, Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform eight feet square Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly Daughter lies From weakness, now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride, How he glories, when he sees Roses, lilies, side by side, Violets in families.

By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality.

And should I live through sun and rain Seven widow'd years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!