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Gaily from thy mother-stalk

O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wasted high To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die.

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the tedded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE

of the calm glossy lake, ő let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
Sittest behind those virgins gay,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,

But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Soft the glances of the youth,

Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! But no sound like simple truth,

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye.

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Lothing thy polluted lot,

Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe :
With a musing melancholy

THE KEEPSAKE.
Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
Mother sage of Self-dominion,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, Is the memory of past folly.

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes,

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, Soon with renovated wing

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Shall she dare a loftier flight,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* L'pward to the day-star spring,

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
And embathe in heavenly light.

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved),
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, You cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Bestes the proud Harlot her distended breast, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, In intricacies of laborious song.

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.

To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
Barsts in a squall—they gape for wonderment.

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd
Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate !
Seondul, yet envious, with self-torturing seer

• One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve

inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has | While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,

the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (VergissPranles accordant scandal in her ear.

mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden.

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her? Besides, what ver'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL

TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S “ SHIPWRECK."

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;
Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;
Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,

And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! “ Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers

roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the

IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day :

For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

name

Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form’d! this work to

thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

'T IS sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more : There 's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

TO A YOUNG LADY.

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

Why need I say,

Louisa dear! How glad I am to see you here

A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear,

And feverish heat incessant. The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I

With their sweet influencing.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the

Dove, The Linnet and Thrush, say, “I love and I love !" In the winter they 're silent—the wind is so strong, What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-
* I love my Love, and my Love loves me !"

Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here,

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills.

Sap lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strore in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
Sone royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sterness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repellid in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
Though changed in nature, wander where he would-
For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!
Fer this one Hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone!
Perced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
Sucha strength that he would bless his pains and live.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet wh

That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? That sense of promise every where?

Beloved! flew your spirit by? As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply, had I been beguiled. You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream! Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore,

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in Clamor's hour.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

A FRAGMENT.

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Dreams (the soul herself forsaking),

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ;

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Silent adorations, making

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! A blessed shadow of this Earth!

Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,

How silently! Around thee and above Oye hopes, that stir within me,

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
Health comes with you from above! An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it,
God is with me, God is in me!

As with a wedge! But when I look again,
I cannot die, if Life be Love.

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
o dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer CUPID, if storying legends* tell aright,

I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:

Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy : Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind

Into the mighty vision passing—there Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow. As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven! And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe. The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Sweet sounds transpired, as when th'enamour'd dove Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Pours the soft murm’ring of responsive love.

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
And “ Kisses” was the precious compound's name.

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,
And breathed on SARA's lovelier lips the rest.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,
III. MEDITATIVE POEMS, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink :

Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn

Co-herald: wake, 0 wake, and utter praise'
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ?
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man.

Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life

Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?
Impress their characters on the smooth forchead:
Naught sinks into the Bosom's silent depth.
Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Moves the light fluids lighuy; but no soul

Who call’d you forth from night and utter death, Warmeth the inner frame.

Schiller.

From dark and icy cavers call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,

For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE Who gave you your invulnerable life,
OF CHAMOUNY.

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents And who commanded (and the silence came), rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers. Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amainHast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause

And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven * Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem

Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun Basia lasciva Cypria Diva mana. Ambrosio succos occulta temperat arte,

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ?-Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Non impune favis surripuissct Amor.
Decuskos violæ foliis ad miscet odores

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
Et spolia Estivis plurima rapta rosis.

God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
Ex his composuit Dea basia ; et omnia libans
Invenias nitidæ sparsa per ora Cloës

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

IN BLANK VERSE.

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

My native land! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Ye signs and wonders of the element!

Floated away, like a departing dream,
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane,
Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard,

That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene

That God is everywhere! the God who framed Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast

Mankind to be one mighty Family, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou

Himself our Father, and the World our Home. That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,

FEBRUARY, 1796. To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! SWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,

Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven,

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

month And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising sun

Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon theo Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!

These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,

E'en now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee

To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth,
LINES

Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms ?

Or to Bristowa's Bard,* the wondrous boy! WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE

An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, HARTZ FOREST.

Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong

Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief I STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw

Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,

Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way

Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine, Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,

And mock my boding! Dim similitudes

Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms From anxious SELF, Life's cruel Task-Master! Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;

And the warm wooings of this sunny day And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,

Tremble along my frame, and harmonize Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct

The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts

Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones

Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

THE EOLIAN HARP.
In low and languid mood :t for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. Their finer influence from the Life within :

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is Or un concerning, where the Heart not finds

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown History or prophecy of Friend, or Child,

With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,

Myrtle, Or Father, or the venerable name

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) Of our adored Country! O thou Queen,

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Thy sands and high white cliffs !

Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so

hush'd!

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
• The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Tells us of Silence.
Germany.
-When I have gazed

And that simplest Lute, From sore high eminence on goodly vales,

Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! And cots and villages embower'd below, The thought would rise that all to me was strange

How by the desultory breeze caress'd, Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. Southey's Hymn to the Penales.

* Chatterton.

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