Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, That in a little cottage I have found; ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR.' IVE me a golden pen, and let me lean On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen The silver strings of heavenly harp atween: And let there glide by many a pearly car, Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears, And as it reaches each delicious ending, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres: For what a height my spirit is contending! 'Tis not content so soon to be alone. This and the preceding introduction to the society were written soon after his of the Vale of Health. H APPY is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan And half forget what world or worldling meant. Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters. S TO MY BROTHERS. MALL, busy flames play through the freshlaid coals, And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, That thus it passes smoothly, quietly: What are this world's true joys,-ere the great Voice ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. T HE poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's- he takes the lead In summer luxury,- he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. December 30, 1816. This was written in competition with Leigh Hunt, whose verses are subjoined. Keats won as to time. The expression, "when the frost has wrought a silence," VOL. II. brought about an animated discussion on the dumbness of Nature during the torpidity of Winter. Each thought the other's treatment incompara. bly superior to his own. 10 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE G CRICKET. REEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;. Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your dear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,In doors and out, Summer and Winter, Mirth! LEIGH HUNT. H ADDRESSED TO HAYDON. IGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a "singleness of aim," That ought to frighten into hooded shame A money-mongering, pitiable brood. ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. REAT spirits now on earth are sojourning: He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo! whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings ? Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. A FTER dark vapours have oppress'd our For a long dreary season, comes a day |