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It tells me too, that on a happy day,

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, HIGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for food,

Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth Dwells here and there with people of no name,

To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:

To where the great God lives for evermore. And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a “singleness of aim,”

That ought to frighten into hooded shame Happy is England! I could be atent A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood.

To see no other verdure than its own; How glorious this affection for the cause

To feel no other breezes than are blown Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!

Through its tall woods with high romances blent: What when a stout unbending champion awes

Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment Envy, and malice to their native sty?

For skies Italian, and an inward groan
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

And half forget what world or worldling meant
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

Enough their simple loveliness for me,

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

Yet do I often warmly burn to see Great spirits now on earth are sojourning :

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,

And float with them about the summer waters. He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyn's sunumit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

THE HUMAN SEASONS. The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake;

And lo! whose sted fastness would never take Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ; A meaner sound ihan Raphael's whispering.

There are four seasons in the mind of man: And other spirits there are standing apart

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Upon the forehead of the age to come ; Takes in all beauty with an easy span : These, these will give the world another heart, He has his Summer, when luxuriously And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves Of mighty workings ?

To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness—to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his winter too of pale misfeature,
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead :
That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead

In summer luxury,-he has never done

Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, With his delights, for when tired out with fun,

Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
The poetry of earth iš ceasing never :

And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,

As if so gentle that ye could not see,
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

Sinking away to his young spirit's night, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea : The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

”T is young Leander toiling to his death ; December 30, 1816.

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips

Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile :

He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath! Good Kosciusko! thy great name alone

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;

It comes upon us like the glorious pealing of the wide spheres-an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, HEARKEN, thou craggy ocean pyramid !

The names of heroes burst from clouds concealing. Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams'

And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing When were thy shoulders maniled in huge streams? Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ?


How long is't since the mighty power bid

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams? With its own drooping buds, but very white. Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,

Where on one side are covert branches hung, Or when gray clouds are thy cold cover-lid ? 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep! In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof Thy life is but tivo dead eternities

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, The last in air, the former in the deep;

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies- And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, Another cannot wake thy giant size.

To say, “ Joy not too much in all that's bloomy."
Yet this is vain-O Mathew! lend thy aid
To find a place where I may greet the maid —

Where we may soft humanity put on,

And sit, and rhyme, and ihink on Chatterton;

And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet hina
Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him

With reverence would we speak of all the sages Among the rest a shepherd (though but young Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages. Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill

And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.

And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness
Britannia's Pastorals.-BROWNE.

To those who strove with the bright golden wing
Of genius, to flap away each sting

Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell

Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;

of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; SWEET are the pleasures that to verse belong, or him whose name to every heart's a solace, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;

High-minded and unbending William Wallace Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view While to the rugged north our musing turns A fate more pleasing, a delight more true

We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. Than that in which the brother poets joy'd, Felton! without incitements such as these, Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd How vain for me the niggard Muse to lease! To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.

For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace, The thought of this great partnership diffuses And make “ a sunshine in a shady place :" Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling

For thou wast once a floweret blooming wild, of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled, Too partial friend ! fain would I follow thee

Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour Past each horizon of fine poesy ;

Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, Fain would I echo back each pleasant note Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float

And, as for him some gift she was devising, 'Mong the light-skimming gondolas far parted, Beheld thee, pluckd thee, cast thee in the stream Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted :

To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. But 't is impossible ; far different cares

I marvel much that thou hast never told Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs," How, from a flower, into a fish of gold And hold my faculties so long in thrall,

Apollo changed thee : how thou next didst seem That I am oft in doubt whether at all

A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; I shall again see Phæbus in the morning;

And when thou first didst in that mirror trace
Or Aush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning; The placid features of a human face:
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

That thou hast never told thy travels strange,
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ;

And all the wonders of the mazy range
Or again witness what with thee I've seen, O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;
The dew by fairy feei swept from the green, Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands
Asier a night of some quaint jubilee

November, 1815.
Which every elf and fay had come to see :
When bright processions took their airy march
Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.



But might I now each passing moment give

To the coy muse, with me she would not live
In this dark city, nor would condescend

Full many a dreary hour have I past, 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

My brain bewilderd, and my mind o'ercast Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, With heaviness ; in seasons when I've thought Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find

No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze That often must have seen a poet frantic;

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays. Where oaks, that erst the Druid kuew, are growing, Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing; Pry 'mong the stars, lo strive to think divinely Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters That I should never hear Apollo's song, Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, With alter-times. The patriot shall feel
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
That the still murmur of the honey-bee

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers, Would never teach a rural song to me:

To starile princes from their easy slumbers. That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting The sage will mingle with each moral theme Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, My happy thoughts sententious: he will teem Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold

With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight

That maids will sing ihem on their bridal-night.
But there are times, when those that love the bay, Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ;

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see And form'd a snowy circle on the grass, In water, earth, or air, but Poesy.

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head, (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it),

Crown'd with flowers purple, white, and red : That when a Poet is in such a trance,

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying : Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel;

A bunch of violets full-blown, and double, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Serenely sleep :-she from a casket takes Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

A little book,—and then a joy awakes When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, About each youthful heart — with stifled cries, Whose tones reach naught on earth but poet's ear.

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes : When these enchanted portals open wide,

For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide

One that I foster'd in my youthful years : The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, And view the glory of their festivals :

Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Fit for the sily'ring of a seraph's dream;

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run, Be lullid with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! Like the bright spots that move about the sun: Thy dales and hills are fading from my view: And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And 't is right just, for well Apollo knows

And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother "Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,

Happier, and dearer to society. As gracefully descending, light and thin,

At times, 't is true, I've felt relief from pain Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,

When some bright thought has darted through my When he up-swimmeth from the coral caves,

brain: And sports with half his tail above the waves. Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure

Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure. These wonders strange he sees, and many more,

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them

I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore:

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Should he upon an evening ramble fare

Stretch'd on the grass at my best-loved employment With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,

Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue, With all its diamonds trembling through and through ? E'en now, I am pillow'd on a bed of flowers,

While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly lowers Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,

Above the ocean waves. The stalks, and blades, And staidly paces higher up, and higher,

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. Like a sweet nun in holiday attire?

On one side is a field of drooping oats, Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats, The revelries, and mysteries of night : And should I ever see them, I will tell you

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. And on the other side, outspread, is seen

The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple and green, These aye the living pleasures of the bard : Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now But richer far posterity's award.

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow; What does he murmur with his latest breath, I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? And the broad-wing'd sea-gull never at rest; - What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, For when no more he spreads his feathers free, Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold

His breast is dancing on the restless sea.



Now I direct my eyes into the West,

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest :

And float along like birds o'er summer seas :
Why westward turn? "T was but to say adieu ! Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness :
"T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you! Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender
August, 1816.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly?

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode.

Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, And with proud breast his own white shadow crown. The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ?

Show'd me that epic was of all the king, He slants his neck beneath the waters bright Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring! So silently, it seems a beam of light

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, –

And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell In striving from its crystal face to take

Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen, Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure Or known your kindness, what might I have been! In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

What my enjoyments in my youthful years,
But not a moment can he there insure them, Bereft of all that now my life endears?
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; And can I e'er these benefits forget?
For down they rush as though they would be free, And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
And drop like hours into eternity.

No, doubly no ;-yel should these rhymings pleare, Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease; Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; For I have long time been my fancy feeding With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, With hopes that you would one day think the reading I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ;

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent; Sull scooping up the water with my fingers, Should it e'er be so, what a rich content! In which a trembling diamond never lingers. Some weeks have pass'd since last 1 saw the spires

In lucent Thames reflected:-warın desires By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness, Why I have never pennd a line to thee:

And morning-shadow's streaking into slimness Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; And little fit to please a classic ear;

To mark the time as they grow broad and shorter ; Because my wine was of too poor a savor

To feel the air that plays about the hills, For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor And sips its freshness from the little rills ; Of sparkling Helicon :-small good it were

To see high, golden corn wave in the light To take him to a desert rude and bare,

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, Who had on Baia's shore reclined at ease,

And peers among the cloudlets, jet and white, While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze As though she were reclining in a bed That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, Of bean-blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : No sooner had I stept into these pleasures, Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream Than I began to think of rhymes and measures Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; The air that floated by me seem'u to say Who had beheld Belphabe in a brook,

“ Write! thou will never have a better day." And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

And so I did. When many lines I'd written, And Archimago leaning o'er his book :

Though wi:h their grace I was not over-smillen, Who had of all that's sweet, tasted, and seen, Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letier.
From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania, Such an attempt required an inspiration
To the blue dwelling of divine Urania :

Of a peculiar sort,-a consummation :-
One, who, of late had ta'en sweet forest walks Which, had I fell, these scribblings might have been
With him who elegantly chats and talks-

Verses from which the soul would never wean; The wrong'd Libertas—who has told you stories But many days have past since last my heart Of laurel chaplets, and A pollo's glories;

Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; of troops chivalrous prancing through a city, By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd; And tearful ladies, made for love and pity :

Or by the song of Erin pierced and saddend : With many else which I have never known. What time you were before the music sitting, Thus have I thought; and days on days have nown And the rich notes to cach sensation fitting. Slowly, or rapidly-unwilling still

Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

That freshly terminate in open plains,
Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; And revell'd in a chat that ceased not,
That you first taught me all the sweets of song: When, at night-fall, among your books we got •
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : No, nor when supper came, nor after that,
What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine: Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;

The north cannot undo them,
With a sloety whistle thin'ugh them;
Nor frozen thanings glue them
From budding at the prime.

No, nor ull cordially you shouk my hand
Midway between our homes.-your accents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
Could hear your totsteps touch the gravelly floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
You changed the 1001-path for the grassy plain.
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
That well you know 10 honor :- Life's very toys
With him," saia 1. “ will ke a pleasant charm;
It cannot be that anght will work lim harm."
These thoughts now come ver me with all their

might:Again I shake your hand,—frien.. Charles, good-night.

September, 1816.

lo a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, hapny brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look ;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal trering,
Never, never peiling
About the frozen time.

STANZAS. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, 'Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicily: 45


Ah! would 't were so with many

genile girl and boy! But were there ever any Wrished not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.



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