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MOODS OF MY OWN MIND.

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange—
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

1823.

1.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Stay near me-do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in Thee,

Historian of my Infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart !

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay Creature as thou art!

A solemn image to my heart,

My Father's Family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when in our childish plays
My sister Emmeline and I

Together chaced the Butterfly!

A

very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey-with leaps and springs

I follow'd on from brake to bush;

But She, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.

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