VII. THERE is a little unpretending Rill Months perish with their moons; year treads on year; VIII. HER only Pilot the soft breeze the Boat With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, All that to each is precious, as we float If the Heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, While here sits One whose brightness owes it hues IX. ; THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, From which I have been lifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care. * See the vision of Mirzah in the Spectator. X. UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Ere they were lost within the shady wood; Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given XI. "WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmuringsDull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own Country, and forgive the strings." Divine of words quickening insensate Things. Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then |