When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,

Unintellectual, yet divine to me;—

Divine, I say! What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes

Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do

To get anew

Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above

The reach of fluttering Love,

And make him cower lowly while I soar?

Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,

A heresy and schism,

Foisted into the canon-law of love;

No, wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares

Seize on me unawares,

Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and lived a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone,-with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright!

O, let me once more rest

My soul upon that dazzling breast!

Let once again these aching arms be placed,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!

And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,-
O, the sweetness of the pain!

Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!

Oct. 1819.

A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO.

I.

AIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by;

They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
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III.

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

IV.

A whole long month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of June: "To-morrow will I bow to my delight,

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.""O may I never see another night,

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune."So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

V.

Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek

Fell sick within the rose's just domain, Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek By every lull to cool her infant's pain: "How ill she is!" said he, "I may not speak,

And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, And at the least 'twill startle off her cares."

VI.

So said he one fair morning, and all day
His heart beat awfully against his side;