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OW morning from her orient chamber came,

And her first footsteps touch'da verdant hill: Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill,

Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright,
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below;
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow :
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,

On the authority of the earliest known composition notes of Mr. Brown, given to of Keats, and to have been me at Florence, in 1832, I written during his residence have stated this to be the at Edmonton.--ED. Vol. II.


And oar'd himself along with majesty :
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show

Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
That in that fairest lake had placed been,
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
For. sure so fair a place was never seen
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen

Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cæru-

lean sky.

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
Haply it was the workings of its pride,

In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.

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HAT though, while the wonders of nature

exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend,

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream

rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray, that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling?

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare? Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea : And now! ah, I see it-you just now are stooping

To pick up the keepsake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of

And, smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly

The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given,

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with

from you;

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of

the ocean, Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure

(And blissful is he who such happiness finds), To possess but a span of the hour of leisure

In elegant, pure, and aërial minds.




AST thou from the caves of Golconda, a

gem Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through

a fountain ?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ?

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold ? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing ? And wear'st thou the shield of the famed

Britomartis ?

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What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave,

Embroider'd with many a spring-peering flower ? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art

crown'd; Full many the glories that brighten thy youth ! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers to bless and to soothe.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair

A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a chain : And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightin

gales listen'd! The wondering spirits of Heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft


In this little dome, all those melodies strange,

Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change,

Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.

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