A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land,
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
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Sleet! and hail! and thunder!
And ye winds that rave,
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I gaze upon a city,— A city new and strange,—
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What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— A magic talisman of mighty power?
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And has the earth lost its so spacious round, The sky its blue circumference above,
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The lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft,
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I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
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Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led!—
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Author of The Cook's Oracle, Observations on Vocal Music, The Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life, Practical Observations on Telesco
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A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill!
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Full of drink and full of meat, On our SAVIOUR'S natal day,
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Far above the hollow Tempest, and its moan,
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Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,
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Alas! That breathing Vanity should go Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost,
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Ah me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic grounds
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Giver of glowing light! Though but a god of other days,
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Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again,—
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Oh, heavy day! oh, day of woe! To misery a poster,
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Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!—
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Summer is gone on swallows' wings, And Earth has buried all her flowers:
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I love thee—I love thee! 'Tis all that I can say;—
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Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part?
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O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea, Through all the miles that stretch between,
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Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily;
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The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas,
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BIANCA!—fair Bianca!—who could dwell
With safety on her dark and hazel gaze,
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The dead are in their silent graves, And the dew is cold above,
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Come, let us set our careful breasts, Like Philomel, against the thorn,
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She was a woman peerless in her station,
With household virtues wedded to her name;
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"O breathe not his name!"—Moore.
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