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Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;

Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?

Why should I strive to show what from thy lips

Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,

And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:

I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,

Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;

And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,

Like one who once had wings.—O why should I

Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air

Yiel ds to my step aspirant? why should I

Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet?

Goddess benign! point forth some unknown thing:

Are there not other regions than this isle?

What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun!

And the most patient brilliance of the moon!

And stars by thousands! Point me out the way

To any one particular beauteous star,

And I will flit into it with my lyre,

And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss.

I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power?

Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity

Makes this alarm in the elements,

While I here idle listen on the shores

In fearless yet in aching ignorance?

O tell me, lonely Goddess ! by thy harp,

That waileth every morn and eventide,

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves!

Mute thou remainest—Mute 1 yet I can read

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.

Names, deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions,

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,

Creations and destroyings, all at once

Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,

And deify me, as if some blithe wine

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,

And so become immortal."—Thus the God,

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance

Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept

Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush

All the immortal fairness of his limbs:

Most like the struggle at the gate of death;

Or liker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse
Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd;
His very hair, his golden tresses famed
Kept undulation round his eager neck.
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied.—At length
Apollo shriek'd ;—and lo ! from all his limbs
Celestial * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty?

Fate of the Butterfly.—Spenser.

DEDICATION.
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.

Glory and Loveliness have pass'd away;

For if we wander out in early morn,

No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east to meet the smiling day: No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay,

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
The shrine of Flora in her early May.
But there are left delights as high as these.

And I shall ever bless my destiny,
That in a time when under pleasant trees

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please

With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

Places of nestling green for poets made.

Story of Rimini.

I Stood tiptoe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems,
Had not yet lost their starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

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