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List, the winds of March are blowing,

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List 'twas the Cuckoo.-O with what delight,

Lone Flower hemmed in with snows, and white as they,

Long favoured England! be not thou misled,

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Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn,

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Lo where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,

Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live,

Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark book,
Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy,
Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road,
Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, .
Methinks that to some vacant hermitage,
Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat,

Mid-noon is past ;-upon the sultry mead,
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour,
Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued,
Miserrimus! and neither name nor date,
Monastic Domes! following my downward way,
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes,
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost,
Motions and Means, on land and sea at war,

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands, .
Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove,

Not envying Latian shades—if yet they throw,
Not from his fellows only man may learn,
Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep,
Not in the lucid intervals of life,

Not in the mines beyond the western main,
Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly,
Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell,
Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave,
Not sedentary all: there are who roam,
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,

Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance,
Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard,
Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew,
Not to the object specially designed,

Not utterly unworthy to endure,

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room,

O dearer far than light and life are dear,
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied, .
O Flower of all that springs from gentle blood,
Of mortal parents is the Hero born,
O for a dirge! But why complain,

O, for a kindling touch from that pure flame,
O for the help of Angels to complete, .

O Friend! I know not which way I must look,
Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust,

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Oft through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer,
O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,

Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech,

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter,

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O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously (quoth she),
O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot,
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee,
Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky),
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned,

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Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear,

Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound, .

On, loitering Muse-the swift Stream chides us-on,

O there is blessing in this gentle breeze,

O thou who movest onward with a mind,
O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought,
Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine,
Our walk was far among the ancient trees,
Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand,

People! your chains are severing link by link,

People! your chains are severing link by link,

Portentous change when History can appear,

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Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay,

Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs,

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old,

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb,
Rapt above earth by power of one fair face,
Realms quake by turns; proud Arbitress of grace,
Record we too, with just and faithful pen,

Redoubted King, of courage leonine, .
Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed,
Rest, rest, perturbed Earth,

Return, Content! for fondly I pursued,

Rise! they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask,
Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey,
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen,

Sacred Religion ! mother of form and fear,

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Sad thoughts, avaunt !—partake we their blithe cheer,
Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud,

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,

Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the sea-mew- -white

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, .

See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins,

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Serene, and fitted to embrace, .

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Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here,

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Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love,

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Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow,

Six changeful years have vanished, since I first,

Six months to six years added he remained,
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Small service is true service while it lasts,
Smile of the Moon!-for so I name,
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge-the Mere,
Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played,
Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand, .
Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest,

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs,

Strange fits of passion have I known, .
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones,
Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead,
Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Such fruitless questions may not long beguile,
Surprised by joy-impatient as the Wind,
Sweet Flower! belike one day to have,

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower,

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take,

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot-fit school,
That happy gleam of vernal eyes,

That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned,

That is work of waste and ruin,

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The Baptist might have been ordained to cry,
The Bard-whose soul is meek as dawning day,
-to cliff or moor,

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The cattle crowding round this beverage clear,

The cock is crowing,

The confidence of Youth, our only Art,

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink,
The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,