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From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
This night at least, for Rokeby’s fame
The hospitable hearth shall flame,
. And, ere its native heir retire,

Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
While this poor harper, by the blaze,
Recounts the tale of other days.
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed,
Admit him, and relieve each need.—
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try
Thy minstrel skill!—nay, no reply—
And look not sad!—I guess thy thought,
Thy verse with laurels would be bought;
And poor Matilda, landless now,
Has not a garland for thy brow.
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby’s glades,
Nor wander more in Greta shades;
But sure, no rigid jailor, thou
Wilt a short prison-walk allow,
Where summer flowers grow wild at will,
On Marwood-chace and Toller-hill;
Then holly green and lily gay
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.”—
The mournful youth, a space aside,
To tune Matilda's harp applied;
And then a low sad descant rung,
As prelude to the lay he sung.

the cypress Wreath.

O Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish’d holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipped in dew;
On favour’d Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green—
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Ortwine it of the cypress treel

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;

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Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov’d a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov’reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Fram'd again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. ‘Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign’d abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring,

Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ;
Friendly Trait’ress, loving Foe, L-
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

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Chains that chink in cheerless cells
Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
Walls contrived for giant sin
Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in;
Near thy sinless bed black guilt
Her discordant house hath built,
And filled it with her monstrous brood–
Sights, by thee not understood–
Sights of fear, and of distress,
That pass a harmless infant's guess:

But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last. Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour, That yields thee up to Nature's power. Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee. She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost. Then wandering up thy sire's lov’d hill, Thou shalt take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning. "Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they. Then thy prison's lengthened bound Shall be the horizon skirting round. And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, To make amends for wintery hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface Each vestige of untimely care, That sour restraint had graven there; And on thy every look impress A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguil'd, Thornton Hunt, my favourite child.


BUGGESTED BY A Picture of Two FEMALES BY LionArtdo DA Vinci.

The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the abbess hears. [ye lead.” “O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed. [thought She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught. [my fame, “I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's Thatne. [the tree, Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. [head, But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er my And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,

This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here.”



PLAce Fort A portrait of A LADY BY TitiaN. Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? Come fair and pretty, tell to me, Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be. Thou pretty art and fair, But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. No need for Blanch her history to tell; Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.


While young John runs to greet
The greater infant's feet,
The mother standing by, with trembling passion
Of devout admiration, [ration;
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty ado-
Nor knows as yet the full event
Of those so low beginnings,
From whence we date our winnings, o
But wonders at the intent [worship meant.
Of those new rites, and what that strange child-
But at her side

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy

As no dim doubts alloy,

An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew
All the blest wonders should ensue,
Or he had lately left the upper sphere, [dles there.
And had read all the sovran schemes and divine rid-


To Miss KELLY.

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
That stoop their pride and female honor down
To please that many-headed beast the town,
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
You keep your native dignity of thought;
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
As tributes due unto your natural vein.
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That vanish and return we know not how— -

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