Singing of Glory, and Futurity,

• Most musical, most melancholy,' bird! To wander back on such unhealthful road,

A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill

In nature there is nothing melancholy. Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced Strew'd before thy advancing!

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love
Nor do thou,

|(And so poor Wretch! filled all things with himself, Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of thy communion with my nobler mind

Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he,
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long !

First named these notes a melancholy strain.
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. Apd many a poet echoes the conceit;
The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
Amid the howl of more than win try storms,

Beside a brook in mossy forest-diell,
The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours

By Sun or Moon-light, to the intluxes Already on the wing.

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

Surrendering his whole spirit, of bis song
Eve following eve,

And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home Should share in Nature's immortality,
Is swectest! moments for their own sake baild A venerable thing! and so his song
And more desired, more precious for thy song, Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
In silence listening, like a devout child,

Be loved like Nature! But 't will not be so;
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain

And youths and maidens most poetical, Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,

Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring With momentary Stars of my own birth,

In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, Fair constellated Foam,' still darting off

Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,

O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon.

My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide! A different lore: we may not thus profane Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! Nature's sweet voices, always full of love Thy long sustained song finally closed,

And joyance! 'T is the merry Nightingale "And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates Wert still before my eyes, and round us both

With fast thick warble his delicious notes, That happy vision of beloved faces

As he were fearful that an April night Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close Would be too short for him to utter forth I sate, my being blended in one thought

His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul (Thought was it? or Aspiration? or Resolve ?)

Of all its music!
Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound-
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so

This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
THE NIGHTINGALE;

And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
A CONVERSATION POEM;

Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.

But never elsewhere in one place I knew
WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.

So many Nightingales; and far and near,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

They answer and provoke each other's song, Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.

With skirmish and capricious passagings, Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

And one low piping sound more sweet than allBut bear no murmuring: it flows silently,

Stirring the air with such a harmony, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

That should you close your eyes, you might almost A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,

Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, That gladden the green carth, and we shall find You may perchance behold them on the twigs, A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,

Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade

Lights up her love-torch. "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 1 This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and liule stars of that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the mefame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and erery now and lapeboly man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from makes this remark, to rescue bimself from the charge of having althe vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the luded with levity 10 a line in Milton : a charge than which pone sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilder- could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiness..--The Friend, p. zao.

A most gentle Maid, By its own moods interprets, every where Who dwelleth in her hospitable home

Echo or mirror seeking of itself, Hard by the castle, and at latest eve

And makes a toy of Thought. (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove)

But O! how oft, Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, How oft, at school, with most believing mind That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space,

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud,

To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-lower, With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds

Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,

From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, As if some sudden gale had swept at once

So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me A hundred airy barps! And she hath watch'd With a wild pleasure, falling on mine car Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily

Most like articulate sounds of things to come! On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, And to that motion tune his wanton song

Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams! Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

And so I brooded all the following morn,

Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Farewell, o Warbler! till to-morrow eve,

Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book : And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!

Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd We have been loitering long and pleasantly,

A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, And now for our dear homes.—That strain again? For still I hoped to see the@tranger's face, Full fain it would delay mc! My dear babe,

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, Who, capable of no articulate sound,

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear,

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled hy my side, His little hand, the small forefinger up,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

Fill up the interspersed vacancies
To make bim Nature's Play-mate. He knows well And momentary pauses of the thought!
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke

My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
In most distressful mood (some inward pain

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,

And in far other scenes! For I was rear'd And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once,

In the great city, pent'mid cloisters dim, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well! - By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven

Of ancicni mountain, and beneath the clouds, Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores Familiar with these songs, that with the night

And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear Ne may associate joy! Once more farewell,

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Sweet Nightingale! Once more my friends! farewell. Of that eternal language, which thy God

Utters, who from eternity doth teach

Himself in all, and all things in himself.
FROST AT MIDNIGHT.

Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Unbelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud-and hark, again! loud as before.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth Have left me to that solitude, which suits

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Abstruser musings: save that at my side

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 'T is calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the cave-drops fall And vexes meditation with its strange

Heard only in the trances of the blast, And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

Or if the secret ministry of frost
This populous village ! Sca, and hill, and wood, Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
With all the numberless goings on of life,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which Mutter'd on the grate,

TO A FRIEND,
Sull futters there, the sole unquict thing.

TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Making it a coinpanionable form,

Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Whose puny paps and freaks the idling Spirit

Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers