The night wind

The night wind now with sooty wings
In the cotters chimney sings
Now as stretching oer the bed
Soft I raise my drowsy head
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm tree's mossy arms
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep
Deeper darkness stealing round
Then as rocked I sink to sleep
Mid the wild winds lulling sound

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Soothing scene

One gloomy eve I roamed about
  Neath Oxeys hazel bowers
While timid hares were darting out
  To crop the dewy flowers
& soothing was the scene to me
  Right pleased was my soul
My breast was calm as summers sea
  When waves forget to roll
  

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Pleasant sounds

The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods & under hedges    The crumping of cat-ice & snow down wood rides   narrow lanes & every street causeways     Rustling through a wood    or rather rushing while the wind hallows in the oak tops like thunder     The rustles of birds wings startled from their nests or flying unseen into the bushes      The whizzing of larger birds over head in a wood such as crows puddocks buzzards &c     The trample of roburst wood larks on the brown leaves & the patter of Squirrels on the green moss   The fall of an acorn on the ground   the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches ere they fall from ripeness     The flirt of the ground-larks wing from the stubbles    how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings when the dew flashes from its brown feathers

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Startled frogs

From the hay-cocks moistend heaps

Startled frogs take vaunting leaps

& along the shaven mead

Jumping travellers they proceed 

Quick the dewy grass divides

Moistening sweet their speckled sides 

From the grass or flowrets cup

Quick the dew-drop bounces up

Now the blue fog creeps along

& the birds forgot his song

Flowers now sleep within their hoods

Daisies button into buds

From soiling dew the butter-cup 

Shuts his golden jewels up

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Life?

And what is Life? -- An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length? -- A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness? -- A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes? -- The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each floweret of its gem -- and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise

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Old merry songs

The Moth a coy lover now ventures to creep

Out at night to steal kisses from flowers when asleep

But the Butterflye bold as the Bee for a plot

Kisses the flowers all the day whether willing or not

Now no longer able his sports to pursue

He lay neath a leaf to get out of the dew

Heres the Cockchaffer to with his old sullen drone

Sings as if he thought no song sweet as his own

The Bee too with grains of red dust on each thigh

Who had drained thro the day all the honey flowers dry

& in vain he attempted straight forward to drive

He reeled and mistook the way home to his hive

Till lost on this spot in a considerable fright

He makes on this thistle a bed for the night

Heres the rope dancing spider a trusting his threads

From his web on the branches high over their heads

Ah well may you laugh at the sports he doth make

While he dances away in no fears for his neck

The rest were all coupled & happy & they

Song the old merry songs which they sang at his day

(Unpublished as far as I can tell)

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I am free