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The murmur of a neighboring stream
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,

A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognized the earth-born Star,

And that which glittered from afar;

And (strange to witness!) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb there came
Intelligible sounds.

Much did it taunt the humble Light,

That now, when day was fled, and night

Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume

To show her taper in the gloom,

As if in rivalship with one

Who sat a ruler on his throne

Erected in the skies.

"Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,
"Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.

"But not for this do I aspire

To match the spark of local fire,

That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,

With thy acknowledged glories; - No!

Yet, thus upbraided, I may show

What favors do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn."

When this in modest guise was said,
Across the welkin seemed to spread

A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit!
Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;
And reeled with visionary stir

In the blue depth, like Lucifer

Cast headlong to the pit!

Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor

Of ancient ether was no more,

New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought

forth:

And all the happy Souls that rode

Transfigured through that fresh abode

Had heretofore, in humble trust,

Shone meekly 'mid their native dust,
The Glowworms of the earth!

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice

the open

lea:

Of him who slept upon
Waking at morn he murmured not;

And, till life's journey closed, the spot

Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,

Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.

XXVI.

1818.

THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE.

As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,

The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love

Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have carolled, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale
Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;

Love, blessed Love, is everywhere

The spirit of my song:

'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,
Love animates my lyre;

That coo again! — 't is not to chide,

I feel, but to inspire.

XXVII.

A WREN'S NEST.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,

And seldom needs a labored roof;

Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,

1830.

The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low, clear song; And by the busy streamlet both

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Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge,

Mistrusting her evasive skill,

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