Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Glocester, no more.
I will behold that Boulogne

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away;
Go no further; not a step more; thou art
God of the golden bow,

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
Grievously are we tantaliz'd, one and all-

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,

Happy, happy glowing fire!

Happy is England! I could be content

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
He is to weet a melancholy carle:
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Here all the summer could I stay,
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,
How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
How many bards gild the lapses of time!

Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!

I cry your mercy-pity-love! - aye, love!
I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,

If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front

In a drear-nighted December,

In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,

In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch,

In thy western halls of gold

It keeps eternal whisperings around

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
King of the stormy sea!

Life's sea hath been five times at its slow ebb, [foot-note]

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,

Many the wonders I this day have seen:
Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright,
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,.
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My spirit is too weak - mortality

Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies,
No more advices, no more cautioning;
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No! those days are gone away

Now, Ludolph! Now, Auranthe! Daughter fair!
Now may we lift our bruised vizors up.

Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
Not Aladdin magian .

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance,

O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear

O blush not so! O blush not so!.

358

O golden tongued Romance, with serene lute!

One morn before me were three figures seen,
Over the Hill and over the Dale, .

Oh! what a voice is silent. It was soft [foot-note]
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,.

O for enough life to support me on

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

O, my poor Boy! my Son! my Son! my Ludolph!

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, .

O Sorrow,.

O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
O that a week could be an age, and we
O that the earth were empty, as when Cain
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,

O Thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
O! were I one of the Olympian twelve,

() what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, [foot-note]
Of late two dainties were before me plac'd
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,

Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,

Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!

362

Shed no tear O shed no tear!

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
So, I am safe emerged from these broils!
Son of the old moon-mountains African!

Souls of Poets dead and gone,

Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
Spirit here that reignest!

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,

Still very sick my Lord; but now I went
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,

The church bells toll a melancholy round,

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
The Gothic looks solemn,

The poetry of earth is never dead:

There was a naughty Boy,

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,

148

412

Think not of it, sweet one, so;

This mortal body of a thousand days

407
369

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness

This pleasant tale is like a little copse:.

411

366

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace,

295

Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
'Tis the witching hour of night,

335

402

To-night I'll have my friar - let me think

421

To one who has been long in city pent,
Two or three Posies