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In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade ! O let me see our land retain her soul !
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed Beneath thy pinions canopy my head !
Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great liberty ! how great in plain attire! With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : But let me see thee stoop from Heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings !
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud; Brightening the half-veild face of leaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head
IMITATION OF SPENSER.
COW morning from her orient chamber came
from mossy beds, did down distil,
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright,
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
Of the bright waters; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cæru
And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
WOMAN! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again ;
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances,
E’en then my soul with exultation dances For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain : But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore
I hotly burn to be a Calidore
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.
Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ;
To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
They be of what is worthy, - though not drest, In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ;
These lures I straight forget, e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark
Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark,
To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being ?
Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ?
God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
Will never give him pinions, who intreats
Such innocence to ruin, who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear
A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near:
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
Y heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
And purple-stained mouth;
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
But here there is no light,
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
And mid-May's eldest child,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death, Calld him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
To thy high requiem become a sod.