IV. O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. How many bards gild the lapses of time! Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves more, That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. VI. TO G. A. W. NYMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance! In what diviner moments of the day Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance? Or when serenely wandering in a trance Of sober thought? Or when starting away, With careless robe to meet the morning ray, Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance? Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely That I can never tell what mood is best, I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly Trips it before Apollo than the rest. VII. WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON. WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair VIII. TO MY BROTHER. SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, That From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly. |