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Loathing thy polluted lot,

The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Hie thee, maiden, hie thee hence !

Or moan of ocean gale in weedy caves,
Seek thy weeping mother's cot,

Or where the stiff grass ’mid the heath-plant waves, With a wiser innocence.

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is wo:
With a musing melancholy

Inly arm’d, go, maiden! go.

The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil,
Mother sage of self-dominion,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O melancholy !

Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Is the memory of past folly.

Or when it bends beneath th' up-springing lark, Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose

(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes,

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms;

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
Soon with renovated wing

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
Shall she dare a loftier flight,

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Upward to the day-star spring,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !*
And embathe in heavenly light.

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved,) LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. Nor cold nor stern my soul! yet I detest

In the cool morning twilight, early waked
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
In intricacies of laborious song.

Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, These feel not music's genuine power, nor deign Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung,

To melt at nature's passion-warbled plaint; Making a quiet image of disquiet . But when the long-breathed singer's uptrillid strain In the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool. Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,

And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy Hark the deep buzz of vanity and hate !

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

Between the moss-rose and forget-me-notWhile the pert captain, or the primmer priest,

Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair! Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

That forced to wander till sweet spring return, O give me, from this heartless scene released,

I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, To hear our old musician, blind and gray, (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd,) Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood

Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play

Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

With which she promised, that when spring reThe while I dance amid the tedded hay

turn'd, With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.

She would resign one-half of that dear name, Or lies the purple evening on the bay

Aud own thenceforth no other name but mine! Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder trees,
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

Au! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,

Nor while half-listening, ʼmid delicious dreams, And the gust pelting on the outhouse shed

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of wo,

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,

of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six

to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!

eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures

Germany, (Vergissmein nicht,) and, we believe, in DenWhatever tones and melancholy pleasures

mark and Sweden.

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong, On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;

What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud Nor in dim cave with bladdery sca-weed strew'd,

song. Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny, warm

weather, Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And singing, and loving—all come back together. And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, hark !

The green fields below him, the blue sky above, Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings bem

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark ! “I love my love, and my love loves me !"

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'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city crowds must push his way,

To stroll along through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day;

SAD lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling

He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healSincere, affectionate, and gay,

ing, One's own dear children feasting round,

That his sick body might have ease and rest; To celebrate one's marriage-day.

He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest

Against his will the stifling load revealing, But what is all, to his delight,

Though nature forced; though like some captive Who having long been doom'd to roam,

guest, Throws off the bundle from his back

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Before the door of his own home?

An alien's restless mood but half-concealing, Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,

Sickness within and miserable feeling:
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings,

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,

And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain,
Thou breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,

One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,

Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the Though changed in nature, wander where be dove,

wouldThe linnet and thrush, say, “ I love and I love !" For love's despair is but hope's pining ghost !

For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone!
Pierced, as with light from heaven, before its gleams
(So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noontide

bower! Or let it stay! yet this one hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

Has not, since then, love's prompture deep,

Has not love's whisper evermore,

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in clamour's hour.





OFT, ost methinks, the while with thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear
A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of wise !


If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

A pulse of love, that ne'er can slecp!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying;

But born beneath love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again.

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain,

Its own sweet self-a love of thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be!


How warm this woodland wild recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here,

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.



Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills.



God be with thee, gladsome ocean!

How gladly greet I thce once more: Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,

And men rejoicing on thy shore.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise everywhere?

Beloved ! flew your spirit by?

Dissuading spake the mild physician,

“ Those briny waves for thee are death !" But my soul fullill’d her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

As when a mother doth explore

The rose mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply, had I been beguiled.

Fashion's pining sons and daughters,

That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares nature, if they die ?

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You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures

Revisit on thy echoing strand :

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Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,)

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth;

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Silent adorations, making

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
A blessed shadow of this earth!

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

How silently! Around thee and above Oye hopes, that stir within me,

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
Health comes with you from above! An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
God is with me, God is in me!

As with a wedge! But when I look again,
I cannot die, is life be love.

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS. Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,

I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
CUPID, if storying legends* tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd:

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:

thought, Brush'd from th’ Idalian star by faery wings: Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Each gentler pleasure of th’unspotted mind

Into the mighty vision passing—there Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness As in her natural form, swellid vast to beaten! glow,

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
And hope, the blameless parasite of wo.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs; Sweet sounds transpired, as when th’ enamour'a Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! dove Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love.

O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,
The finish'd work might envy vainly blame,
“Kisses” was the precious compound's name.

Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,

Companion of the morning star at dawn,
And breathed on SARA's lovelier lips the rest.

Tlyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise !
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,

For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.

Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead:

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth.

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure

And who commanded, and the silence came,) Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Warmeth the inner frame.

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Schiller.

Adown enormous ravines slope amain-

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,

And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts !
Besides the rivers Arre and Arveiron, which have their Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven

sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous Beneath the kcen full moon? Who bade the sun
torrents rush down its sides, and within a few
the Glaciers, the gentiana major grows in immense Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living
numbers, with its "Powers of loveliest blue."


Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? Ilist thou a charm to stay the morning star

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, In his steep course? So long he seems to pause

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!


paces of

* Ethnixt quondam blandum meditata laborem

Basia lascivà Cypria Diva manå. Ambrosia succos occulta temperat arte,

Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus. Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus ulim

Non impune savis surripuisset Amor,

Decussos violæ foliis ad iniscet odores

Et spolia estivis plurima rapta rosis.
Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,

Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
Ex his composuit Dea basia ; et omnia livans
Invenias nitidæ sparsa per ora Cloës.

Carm. Quod. Vol. II.

God! sing, ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Or father, or the venerable name
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! Of our adored country! O thou queen,
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, Thou delegated deity of earth,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! O dear, dear England! how my longing eye

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost! Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest ! Thy sands and high white cliff's !
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!

My native land! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Filld with the thought of thee this heart was Ye signs and wonders of the element!

proud, Otter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view Thou, too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, peaks,

Floated away, like a departing dream, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast- With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That as I raised my head, a while bow'd low That God is everywhere! the God who framed In adoration, upward from thy base

Mankind to be one mighty family, Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Himself our Father, and the world our home. Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

OF FEBRUARY, 1796. And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, tecth-chattering


Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee LINES

With blue voluptuous eye,) alas, poor flower!

These are but flatteries of the faithless year. WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN

Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,

E’en now the keen north-east is on its way. I stood on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw

Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,' To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth, A surging scene, and only limited

Nipp'd by consumption 'mid untiinely charms? By the blue distance. Heavily my way

Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy! Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,

An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong forms

Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound; Bright flower of hope kill'd in the opening bud ? And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,

Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct And mock my boding! Dim similitudes From many a note of many a waterfall,

Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour And the brook's chatter: 'mid whose islet stones From anxious SELF, life's cruel task-master! The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell

And the warm wooings of this sunny day Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Tremble along my frame, and harmonize Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on Th’attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts In low and languid mood :t for I had found Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tones That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument. Their finer influence from the life within : Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds History or prophecy of friend, or child,

THE EOLIAN HARP. Or gentle maid, our first and early love,

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. • The highest mountain in the Hartz, and, indeed, in North Gerinany.

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined t When I have gazed

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is From some high eminence on goodly vales,

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown And cots and villages embower'd below,

With white-flower'd jasmin, and the broad-leaved The thought would rise that all to me was strange

Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
Southey's Hymn lo the Penales.

* Chatterton.


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