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There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
And that inspiring hill which "did divide
While not an English mountain we behold
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
Our British hill is nobler far; he shrouds
pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O sleep! thou art to me
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
O gentle creature! do not use me so,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Like to a breeze from heaven.
Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!