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Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?
Of as uncertain speed
I know it - and to know it is despair
Nor, when away you roam,
Dare keep its wretched home,
Then, loveliest ! keep me free,
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
Or with a rude hand break
The sacrainental cake :
If not — may my eyes close,
H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
From little cares ; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
on Sydney's bier Till their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a delicious tear,
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT
LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL
VRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom now from gloominess
I mount forever not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here
In the Sun's eye, and ’gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo! who dares say, “ Do this? Who dares call
down My will from its high purpose ?
66 Stand," Or“ Go ?” This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars not the stoutest band Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown :
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand !
FTER dark vapors have oppressid our plains
Born of the gentle south, and clears away
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us
as, of leaves Budding, fruit ripening in stillness, - autumn
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves,
breath, The gradual sand that through an hour-glass A woodland rivulet, - a Poet's death.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF
AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF “ THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.
\HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse :
The honeyed lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops
Come cool and suddenly against his face, And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power has white simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story !
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.