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Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no

more.

CHILDHOOD:*

A POEM.

PART I.

PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass how
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; [sweet
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village church-yard, and the village-green,
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn shade,
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine
grew,

And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view th' unclouded skies of former days!"

Beloved age of innocence and smiles,
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Bless'd Childhood, hail !-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight
Recalls some fond idea of delight.

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; Here did I love at evening to retreat, And muse alone, till in the vault of night, Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light, Here once again, remote from human noise, I sit me down to think of former joys; [more, Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once And once again each infant walk explore, While as each grove and lawn I recognize, My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view; Recall with faithful vigour to my mind, Each face familiar, each relation kind; And all the finer traits of them afford, Whose general outline in my heart is stored.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls,
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean:
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,

Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane;
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
While I was first to school reluctant borné:
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,
And thought of tender home, where anger never

[kept.

• This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: written when about the age of 14.

But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew:

And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight,
And as she gave my diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought Of all the ills by talent often brought; Could she have seen me when revolving years Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state; Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd thro' life.

Where, in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? A lonely mariner on the stormy main, Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain; Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide shore, When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ?. Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave The sandy surface of his unwept grave. Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, Serenest season of perpetual calms,Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. Sweet reign of innocence when no crime defiles, But each new object brings attendant smiles; When future evils never haunt the sight, But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight; To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, Turn to partake of more congenial joys.

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were

seen,

In various postures scattering o'er the green!
Some shoot the marble, cthers join the chase
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race;
While others, seated on the dappled grass,
With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass.
Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd,
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd;
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead,
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed;
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown,
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town.

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was

wont

To set her wheel before the cottage front,
And o'er her spectacles would often peer,
To view our gambols, and our boyish geer.
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round,
With its beloved monotony of sound.
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side,
(For out of school she never knew to chide)--
And wonder at her skill-well known to fame-
For who could match in spinning with the dame?
Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride
To strangers, still her thriftness testified;
Though we poor wights did wonder much in troth,
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth.

Oft would we leave, though well-beloved,our play,
To chat at home the vacant hour away.
Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade,
To ask the promised ditty from the maid,
Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing,
While we around her form'd a little ring:
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed,
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed,"
Or little children murder'd as they slept;
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we,
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be.
Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene!
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know,
This world's a world of weeping and of wo!

Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught The first foundation of romantic thought; Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. C

Soon stored with much of legendary lore,
The sports of Childhood charm'd my soul no more.
Far from the scene of gayety and noise,
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys,
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade,
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid,
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran,
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air,
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there.

PART II.

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THERE are, who think that Childhood does not
With age the cup, the bitter cup of care:
Alas! they know not this unhappy truth,
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.

From the first dawn of reason in the mind,
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find;
At every step has farther cause to know,
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with wo.

Yet in the youthful breast for ever caught
With some new object for romantic thought,
The impression of the moment quickly flies,
And with the morrow every sorrow dies.

How different manhood!-then does Thought's control

Sink every pang still deeper in the soul;
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart
Becomes a painful resident in the heart;
And Care, whom not the gayest can out-brave,
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.

Then, as each long known friend is summon'd

hence,

We feel a void no joy can recompense,
And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb,
Wish that ourselves the next inay meet our doom.

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue,
No forms of future ill salute thy view,
No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep,
But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep,
And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life,
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal
strife.
[shrine,
Yet even round childhood's heart, a thoughtless
Affection's little thread will ever twine;
And though but frail may seem each tender tie,
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh.
Thus, when the long-expected moment came,
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame,
Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast,
And a still tear my silent grief express'd.
When to the public school compell'd to go,
What novel scenes did on my senses flow!
There in each breast each active power dilates,
Which broils whole nations, and convulses states,
There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate,
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere,
The dark deformities of man appear.
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim,
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame,
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell,
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell,
And there, mid many a stormy soul, we find
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.

'Twas there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join In Friendship's bands-in amity divine. Oh, mournful thought!-Where is thy spirit now? As here I sit on favourite Logar's brow, And trace below each well-remember'd glade, Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. Where art thou laid-on what untrodden shore, Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar, Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, At last repose from all the storms of fate? Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend; Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way,

While sorrow and disease with anguish rife,
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life.
Again I see his door against thee shut,
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut:
I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief,
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief;
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er,
Thine on thy native land-and rise no more!

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road;
That thou couldst see him at this moment here
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear,
And hover o'er him as he gazes round,
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround.

Yes! yes! his spirit's near!-The whispering

breeze

Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees:
And lo! his form transparent I perceive,
Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve:
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.
Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene?
'Tis Fancy's wild aerial dream I ween;
By her inspired, when reason takes its flight,
What fond illusions beam upon the sight!
She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!
What magic sounds salute the wondering ear!
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread,
And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;
While present sorrow's banish'd far away,
Unclouded azure gilds the placid day,

Or in the future's cloud-encircled face,
Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace,
And draw minutely every little wile,

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile.

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate,
The Royal Mary solitary sate,

And view'd the moon-beam trembling on the wave,
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave,
Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight,
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight;
There did she form full many a scheme of joy,
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy,
Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd,
And all became the surety which it seem'd ;
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm,
In every tear a melancholy charm.

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,
Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep,
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;
To watch the aspect of the summer morn,
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste delighted of superior joys,
Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes:
With silent admiration oft we view'd

[heads,

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,
Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,
And the round orb itself, in azure throne,
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay,,
Reviving Nature hail'd returning day;
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping
And the wild lambkins hounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sung paans to the source of light:
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aerial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along;
And we have thought how happy were our lot,
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve
Began in every dell her forms to weave,
We might pursue our sports from day to day,
And in each other's arms wear life away.

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done,
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet:
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept,
Sung wo unto the wicked land-and wept;

Or, fancy-led-saw Jeremiah mourn

In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.

Then to another shore perhaps would rove,
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;

Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.

Sweet then to us was that romantic band,
The ancient legends of our native land-
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair,
By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd,
Df times when monarch superstition stalk'd,
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom:
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of wo.

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell Which summon'd us to school! "Twas Fancy's And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, [knell, It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind, What powers control, the energies of mind!) Even then we soar'd to many a height sublime, And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, When to the upland heights we bent our way, To view the last beam of departing day; How calm was all around! no playful breeze Sigh'd mid the wavy foliage of the trees, But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along; And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, The distant church-bells' mellow harmony; The silver mirror of the lucid brook, That mid the tufted broom its still course took; The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, With moss and rank weeds hanging down its

sides:

The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;
All, all was pregnant with divine delight.
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high,
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,
And tinged with such variety of shade,

To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky-
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,
Hugely terrific.-But those times are o'er,
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more
For thou art gone, and I am left below,
Alone to struggle through this world of wo.

The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign
The calms of peace and happiness divine!
Far other cares be mine-Men little crave
In this short journey to the silent grave,
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree
Paternal acres to await on mé;

She gave me more, she placed within my breast
A heart with little pleased-with little bless'd.
I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?
Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets,

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Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,

One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days
May wear away in gradual decays;
And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play,
Unseen upon the pinions of the day,
Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were

*

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Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!
Ding-dong, ding-dong,
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swinging o'er the weltering wave!
And we must seek

Our death-beds bleak,

Where the green sod grows upon the grave.

They vanish-The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue Robe, attended by mournful Music.

Come, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chili the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine!

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,
And underneath the sickly ray,
Troops of squalid spectres play,

C2

And the dying mortals' groan

Startles the night on her dusky throne. Come, come, sister mine!

Gliding on the pale moon-shine:

We'll ride at ease,

On the tainted breeze,

And oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and covered with a thick Veil-She speaks

Sister, from my dark abode,

Where nests the raven, sits the toad,

Hither I come, at thy command:
Sister, sister, join thy hand!

Sister, sister, join thy hand!

I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way
Where the troops of spectres play.
To charnel-houses, church-yards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin, on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tomb-stones.
Come, let us speed away,

Lay our snares, and spread our tether!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me:
And the grass shall wave
O'er many a grave,

Where youth and beauty sleep together.

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CONSUMPTION.

In the dismal night air dress'd,
I will creep into her breast:

Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,
And feed on the vital fire within.
Lover, do not trust her eyes,-
When they sparkle most, she dies!
Mother, do not trust her breath,-
Comfort she will breathe in death!
Father, do not strive to save her,-
She is mine, and I must have her!
The coffin must be her bridal bed;
The winding-sheet must wrap her head;
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,
For soon in the grave the maid must lie,
The worm it will riot
On heavenly diet,

When death has deflower'd her eye.

Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?
Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook
Thy widow'd breast-on which the spoiler oft
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds
Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night,
Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round
With its thick fringe thy couch ?-Wan traveller,
How like thy fate to mine!-Yet I have still
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st
My woes will soon be buried in the grave
Of kind forgetfulness:-my journey here,
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn,
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest.
But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace
Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night,
While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath
The leaden pinions of unshaken time;

Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue
To cheat thy steps along the weary way.

O that the sum of human happiness

Should be so trifling, and so frail withal,
That when possess'd, it is but lessen'd grief;
And even then there's scarce a sudden gust
That blows across the dismal waste of life,
But bears it from the view.-Oh! who would
shun

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press
The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,
And yet endure the various ills of life.
And dark vicissitudes !-Soon, I hope, I feel,
And am assured, that I shall lay my head,

My weary aching head, on its last rest,
And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod
Will flourish sweetly.-And then they will weep
That one so young, and what they're pleased to

call

So beautiful, should die so soon-And tell
How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang
Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek.
Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly,
Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves
Might envy me my rest!-And as for them,
Who, on the score of former intimacy,
May thus remembrance me-they must themselves
Successive fall.

Around the winter fire
(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals,
And shrill the skater's irons on the pool
Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs
His graceful evolutions) they not long

Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats

Of early youth, but silent, one by one,
Shall drop into their shrouds.-Some, in their age,
Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me,
And falling green beneath th' untimely stroke
Thus, in short time, in the church-yard forlorn,
Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down,
And dwell with me, a happy family.

And on! thou cruel, yet beloved youth,
Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn,

Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse,

And say that I was gentle, and deserved

A better lover, and I shall forgive

All, all thy wrongs;-and then do thou forget
The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd

As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and

sing,

With thy dear choice, and never think of me.

Yet hist, I hear a step.-In this dark wood

They vanish,

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Forsake the loved Aonian maids,
For all the petty tricks of trades,
I never, either now, or long since,
Have heard of such a piece of nonsense;
That one who learning's joys hath felt,
And at the Muse's altar knelt,
Should leave a life of sacred leisure,
To taste the accumulating pleasure;
And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,
Grovel in loads of kindred muck.
Oh! 'tis beyond my comprehension!
A courtier throwing up his pension,-
A lawyer working without a fee,-
A parson giving charity,-
A truly pious methodist preacher,-
Are not, egad, so out of nature.
Had nature made thee half a fool,
But given thee wit to keep a school,
I had not stared at thy backsliding:
But when thy wit I can confide in,
When well I know thy just pretence
To solid and exalted sense;
When well I know that on thy head
Philosophy her lights hath shed,
I stand aghast! thy virtues sum too,

And wonder what this world will come to!

Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine? Shall I lament that thou alone,

Of men of parts, hast prudence known?

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LINES

ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON.

Age Fourteen.

OH, Warton! to thy soothing shell,
Stretch'd remote in hermit cell,
Where the brook runs babbling by
For ever I could listening lie;
And, catching all the Muse's fire,
Hold converse with the tuneful quire.

What pleasing themes thy page adorn,
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn,
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,
And Melancholy's mournful chime!
Each with unwonted graces shines
In thy ever lovely lines.

Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed;
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,
Now the love-lorn swain complains,
And sings his sorrows to the plains;
Now the sylvan scenes appear
Through all the changes of the year;
Or the elegiac strain

Softly sings of mental pain,
And mournful diapasons sail
On the faintly-dying gale.

But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er
On middle flight we cease to soar,
For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,
In strains unheard before.

Now, now the rising fire thrills high,
Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly,
And every throne explore;
The soul entranced, on mighty wings
With all the poet's heat up springs,
And loses earthly woes;

Till all alarm'd at the giddy height,
The Muse descends on gentler flight,
And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

I.

ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen,

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene.

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