WHAT is mine-a treasury-a dower-
A magic talisman of mighty power ?
A poet's wide possession of the earth.
He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth
Before its budding-ere the first red streaks,
And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.
Look-if his dawn be not as other men's!
Twenty bright flushes-ere another kens
The first of sunlight is abroad-he sees
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees,
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.
When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn
Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf
Is commonly abroad, in his pil'd sheaf
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame.
No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name,
Bnt he will sip it first-before the lees.
'Tis his to taste rich honey,-ere the bees
Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall
June's rosy advent for his coronal;
Before th' expectant buds upon the bough,
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.
Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed,
Before its leafy presence; for indeed
Leaves are but wings, on which the summer flies,
And each thing perishable fades and dies,
Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be
Like overflows of immortality.
So that what there is steep'd shall perish never,
But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever.
I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me ;
Only for roses that your chance may throw-
Though wither'd-—I will wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain;
Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again.
Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.
Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit ;
And words speak false;-yet, if they welcome prove,
I'll be their echo, and repeat their love.
Only if waken'd to sad truth at last,
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;
When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see
Thou hast lov'd Hope, but Memory lov'd thee."
I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me
And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
STILL glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone,
But those green shadows never change.
Serene or ruffled by the storm,
On present waves, as on the past,
The mirror'd grove retains its form,
The self-same trees their semblance cast.
The hue each fleeting globule wears,
That drop bequeaths it to the next;
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmur'd text.
So, love, however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee..
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