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WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE
OF THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.”
This pleasant tale is like a little copse :
The honied lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory,
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
ON THE SEA.
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea ;
Or fed too much with cloying melody,
ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, THE “STORY OF RIMINI.”
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek
Of Heaven-Hesperus—let him lowly speak
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,
To moralize upon a smile or tear,
A bower for his spirit, and will steer
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love !—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
For Jove uncurtain’d Heaven to let thee live,
And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive ; Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light,
And precipices show untrodden green!
There is a triple sight in blindness keen;
ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:
“ Dark eyes are dearer far
By J. H. REYNOLDS. Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,--the domain
Of Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,
The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray and dun. Blue ! 'Tis the life of waters-ocean
And all its vassal streams : pools numberless May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can
Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness. Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest-green,
Married to green in all the sweetest flowersForget-me-not,—the blue bell,—and, that queen
Of secrecy, the violet : what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate !
TO J. H. REYNOLDS.
O that a week could be an age, and we
Felt parting and warm meeting every week, Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
The flush of welcome ever on the cheek : So could we live long life in little space,
So time itself would be annihilate, So a day's journey in oblivious haze
To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant !
And keep our souls in one eternal pant!
TIME's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand; Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,
And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky,
But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye,
But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight;
But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,
Its sweets in the wrong sense :- Thou dost eclipse
* A lady whom he saw for some moments at Vauxhall.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 1819.
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees, But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease; She is a Gipsey,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are !
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.