’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest May hover round the virtuous man’s repose; And oft in visions animate his breast, And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace. Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, And pensive pleasure with devotion blend; While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, The airy lay of some departed saint. RURAL WALKS. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers; For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. And much I love to hail the vernal morn, When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn; And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, To cull the tender rosebuds in my way; And seek in every wild secluded dell, The weeping cowslip and the azure bell; With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, To form the gay festoon of varied hue. And oft I seek the cultivated green, The fertile meadow, and the village scene; Where rosy children sport around the cot, Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. And there I wander by the cheerful rill, That murmurs near the osiers and the mill; To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, And listen to their pleasing festive lay. I love to loiter in the spreading grove, Or in the mountain scenery to rove; Where summits rise in awful grace around, With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d; Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, “And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild: And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, Array’d in all the blending shades of Time. The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane; “And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.” SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.