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Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unshelter'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

O give me, from this heartless scene released,
To hear our old musician, blind and gray
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd),
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the tedded hay
With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay

THEATRE.

MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

Sittest behind those virgins gay, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May! Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look, Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple truth,
But no true love in his eye.

Lothing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:

With a musing melancholy

Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms:

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring, And embathe in heavenly light.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.

NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain
Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.

Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer
My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands'
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,

Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves.
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

THE KEEPSAKE.

THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew 1
loved),

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergise mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say
How can we do without her?
Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew.
They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing!

TO A LADY.

WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK."

AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice;
Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark!

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SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly :

I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

"T IS sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more: There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore!

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the

Dove,

The Linnet and Thrush, say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they 're silent-the wind is so strong, What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather,

And singing, and loving--all come back together

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

SAD lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
Though changed in nature, wander where he would-
For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!
For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone!
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
(So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild Recess! Love surely hath been breathing here, And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress, As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why That asking look? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where? Beloved! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved beforeSo deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meck eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought-
O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamor's hour.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

A FRAGMENT.

OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requests to weep! Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting,

From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing,
And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again.

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain

ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER LONG ABSENCE,

UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO

BATHE.

GOD be with thee, gladsome Ocean!

How gladly greet I thee once more! Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild Physician, "Those briny waves for thee are Death!" But my soul fulfill'd her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares Nature, if they die ?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
A thousand recollections bland,
Thoughts sublime, and stately measures
Revisit on thy echoing strand:

Dreams (the soul herself forsaking), Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; Silent adorations, making

A blessed shadow of this Earth!

O ye hopes, that stir within me,
Health comes with you from above!
God is with me, God is in me!
I cannot die, if Life be Love.

THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.
CUPID, if storying legends* tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :

With these the magic dews, which evening brings,
Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,
Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind-
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow.
And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe.
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form'
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Sweet sounds transpired, as when th'enamour'd dove Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love.
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,
And "Kisses" was the precious compound's name.
With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,
And breathed on SARA's lovelier lips the rest.

III. MEDITATIVE POEMS,

IN BLANK VERSE.

Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead:"
Naught sinks into the Bosom's silent depth.
Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.

Schiller.

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise' Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?

HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE Who gave you your invulnerable life,

OF CHAMOUNY.

Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star
In ms steep course? So long he seems to pause

*Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem
Basia lascivà Cypria Diva manâ.
Ambrosia succos occultâ temperat arte,
Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.
Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim
Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.
Decussos violæ foliis ad miscet odores

Et spolia æstivis plurima rapta rosis.
Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,
Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
Er his composuit Dea basia; et omnia libans
Lavenias nitida sparsa per ora Clos
Carm. Quod. Vol. II.

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
46

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost'
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising sun
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

LINES

My native land!

Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty Family,

Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF
FEBRUARY, 1796.

SWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering
month

Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
E'en now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth,
Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's Bard,* the wondrous boy!

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,

HARTZ FOREST.

I STOOD On Brocken's* sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited

By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,

I moved on

And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving.
In low and languid mood :† for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within:
Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the Heart not finds
History or prophecy of Friend, or Child,
Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,
Or Father, or the venerable name
Of our adored Country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!

Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope,
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine,
And mock my boding! Dim similitudes
From anxious SELF, Life's cruel Task-Master!
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE..

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leaved

Myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so
hush'd!

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea

* The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Tells us of Silence. Germany.

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From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot

Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
Southey's Hymn to the Penates.

And that simplest Lute,

Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark
How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lor,

Chatterton.

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