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Clouds that love through air to haster.,
Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride – How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families ! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Gray-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.
What, if through the frozen centre
Thus then, each to other dear,
Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slurnbers — by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over Desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands, Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal ; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul.
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
THE DANISH BOY.
Beside a Grotto of their own,
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
thing no storm can e'er destroy,
Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
In clouds above, the Lark is heard,
Some close behind, some side by side,
A Spirit of noon-day is he;
The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
3 moan o'er moss and stone, For those seren lovely Campbells.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his fowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.
TO A LADY,
IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM
UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS
IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,
Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed ? How they in sprightly dance are worn
By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn,
These eyes have never seen.
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give, Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live; While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.
Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace: A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmed mind
Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,
A new Forget-me-not.
From earth to heaven with motion fleet
From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet
And there a Shepherd's weather-glass ;
And haply some familiar name
Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant
Of English Emigrant.
Gazing she feels its power beguile
Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;
Is but a harbinger of death:
She says, in faint words by sighs broken,
This precious flower, true love's last token.
Glad sight wherever new with old
THE PILGRIM'S DREAM;
OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.
A PILGRIM, when the summer day
He paced along; and, pensively,
The murmur of a neighbouring stream
Much did it taunt the humble Light
when day was filed, and night Hushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes,
Stranger, 't is no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage
Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the Nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations,
Like yon Tuft of FERN;
When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked – the rivers backward ran That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! Fire raged, — and, when the spangled floor Of apcient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy Souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly ’mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth!
Such it is; the aspiring Creature
A dull helpless Thing,
Its endeavouring !"
- Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea: Waking at morn he murmured not ; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.
By their floating Mill,
That lies dead and still,
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
From the shore come the notes
To their Mill where it floats, To their House and their Mill tethered fast; To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past.
FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.
“Who but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure
With great enterprise ;
In sight of the Spires,
All alive with the fires Of the Sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them, — what matter? 't is theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The Showers of the Spring
Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; Each Wave, one and t’ other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!
ON SEEING A
NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.
THE WORK OPE, M. 8.
Frowns are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own Needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Like station could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's child,
A living Lord of melody!
To the refined indignity?
I spake, when whispered a low voice,
“ Bard ! moderate your ire; “Spirits of all degrees rejoice
“In presence of the Lyre. “ The Minstrely of Pygmean bands,
" Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, " Have shells to fit their tiny hands
" And suit their slendor lays.
Some, still more delicate of ear,
“Have lutes (believe my words) “ Whose framework is of gossamer,
“ While sunbeams are the chords.
Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court,
“Made vocal by their brushing wings, “And sullen Gromnes will learn to sport
“ Around its polished strings:
“Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear,
“While in her lonely bower she tries
“By fanciful embroideries.
“Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite,
“Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ; “Though ’mid the stars the Lyre shine bright
, “Love stoops as fondly as he soars."
THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE
As often as I murmur here
My half-formed melodies,
The Turtledove replies:
The captive promptly coos;
Or second my weak Muse ?
I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Have dared to keep aloof,
Have caroll'd, fancy free,
Had heart or voice for me.
If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird ! to do me wrong;
The spirit of my song:
grove, and by the calm fireside,
I feel, but to inspire.
A WREN'S NEST.
Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,