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POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
Vra Ships the Sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Corne like a giant from a haven broad; bronne
And lastily along the Bay she strode,
* Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.” la deset l'his Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, och det Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; pod wad l'his Ship to all the rest did I prefer :
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook s em No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: de Oa went She, and due north her journey took.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
I am not One who much or oft delight
desire; To sit without emotion,
"Sade the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Va Tue world 19 too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours; * We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! Hi Tha Sca that bares her bosom to the moon; 13 'The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; EXFor this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us nol. - Great God! I'd rather be
Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; ollave sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye ; counced that there, there only, she can lay Store foundations. As the year runs round, 1 eet she toils within the chosen ring;
“Yet life,” you say, “is life; we have seen and see',
li menly closing with the flowers of spring :
For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half-tilier?
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power
TO B. R. HAYDON, ESQ.
High is our calling, Friend ! - Creative Art We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
(Whether the instrument of words she use, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Demands the service of a mind and heart, Dreams, Books, are each a world ; and books, we know, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part
, Are a substantial world, both pure and good :
Heroically fashioned - to infuse Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
While the whole world seerns adverse to desert There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Matter wherein right voluble I am,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, To which I listen with a ready ear;
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,
And in the soul admit of no decay, The gentle Lady married to the Moor;
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness.
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard !
From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote Rise, Gillies, rise: the gales of youth shall bear From evil-speaking ; rancour never sought,
Thy genius forward like a winged steed. Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, And thus from day to day my little Boat
If aught be in them of immortal seed, Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
And reason govern that audacious flight Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, Which heavenward they direct. — Then droop met Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares —
thou, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs
Erroneously renewing a sad vow Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove:
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
With ready sunbeams every straggling shower:
Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due; Angels and gods! we struggle with our fate, Fair Prime of Life! arouse the deeper heart; While health, power, glory, pitiably decline,
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue Depressed and then extinguished: and our state, Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; In this, how different, lost star, from thine,
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim That no to-morrow shall eur beams restore !
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned Walled adown the wind from lake or stream;
Mindless of its just honours ; with this Key A most melodious requiem, a supreme
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound , By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound; O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. ? For is she not the votary of Apollo?
Camöens soothed with it an Exile's grief; And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle Leaf 31. That bliss awaits her which the ungenial hollow*
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned dy Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires ?
His visionary brow: a glow-worm Lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land niin lount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires ! She soared—and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow. Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Is the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Nor Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
WHILE not a leaf seems faded, while the fields,
*Se de Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet war sugeted. And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie,
COMPOSED DURING A STORM.
ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul
He raised his eye
The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
is dome, or vault, or nest,
TO A SNOW-DROP.
TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they, LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
While I was planting green unfading bowers, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
Or of high gladness, you shall hither bring; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, Be gracious as the music and the bl vom And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
And all the avishment of spring.
TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER,
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! With a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Win- Not dull art Thou, as undiscerning Night; chelsea; and extracts of similar character from other writers: But studious only to remove from sight transcribed by a female friend.
Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power! LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore;
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore
The self-same Vision which we now behold, Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; Cast up at random by the sullen wave.
These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; To female hands the treasures were resigned;
The floods, – the stars, - a spectacle as old
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Wrth how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbest the sky,
The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said,
Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
* From a Sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney.