From the young day when first thy infant hand Like one who once had wings.-O why should I And I will flit into it with my lyre, And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. Makes this alarum in the elements, While I here idle listen on the shores In fearless yet in aching ignorance? Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves! Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush Her arms as one who prophesied.-At length MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty. Fate of the Butterfly.-SPENSER. DEDICATION. TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. GLORY and loveliness have passed away; For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east to meet the smiling day: No crowds of nymphs soft-voiced and young and A leafy luxury, seeing I could please With these poor offerings, a man like thee. gay, |