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From Rokeby's hall with moody heart.
Find for the wanderer rest and fire,
the cypress Wreath.
O Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
Let merry England proudly rear
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
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,
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.
Chains that chink in cheerless cells
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.”
on THE SAME Picture BEING REMOVED to MAKE
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.
LINES ON THE CELEBRATED Picture BY LionARDo DA VINCI, CALLED THE wing IN of THE Rocks.
While young John runs to greet
An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,
A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition
Of blind humanity,
As if he surely knew
To Miss KELLY.
You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,