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Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion that their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, And was the safeguard of the West.

But shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.

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.

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound, This solitary Tree! A living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore.