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HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME

How many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy,-I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude :

But no confusion, no disturbance rude Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;

The songs of birds—the whisp'ring of the leaves-

The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound,-and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild up?1816. 1817.

roar.

KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING HERE AND THERE

KEEN, fitful gusts are whispering here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on
high,

Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair :

For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously
crown'd.
91816. 1817.

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT

To one who has been long in city pent
Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,-to breathe a
prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

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More secret than a nest of nightingales? More serene than Cordelia's countenance?

More full of visions than a high romance?

What, but thee, Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!

Low murmurer of tender lullabies! Light hoverer around our happy pillows!

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses! Most happy listener! when the morning blesses

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes

That glance so brightly at the new sunrise.

But what is higher beyond thought than thee?

Fresher than berries of a mountain tree? More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?

What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

It has a glory, and nought else can share it:

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,

Chasing away all worldliness and folly: Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;

And sometimes like a gentle whispering Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing

That breathes about us in the vacant air:

So that we look around with prying stare,

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aërial limning,

And catch soft floatings from a faintheard hymning;

To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,

That is to crown our name when life is ended.

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,

And die away in ardent mutterings.

No one who once the glorious sun has

seen

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

For his great Maker's presence, but must know

What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven-Should I rather
kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel
A glowing splendor round about me
hung.

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent
prayer,

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a
death

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo

Like a fresh sacrifice; or if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair

Visions of all places: a bowery nook Will be elysium—an eternal book Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid

And many a verse from so strange influence

That we must ever wonder how, and whence

It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fireside, and haply there dis

Cover

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander

In happy silence, like the clear meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress

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We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd

In the recesses of a pearly shell.

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, Where I may find the agonies, the strife Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car And steeds with streamy manes-the charioteer

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly

Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;

And now I see them on a green-hill's

side

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