Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures
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.

[Dear Maid! whose form in solitude I seek,
Such songs in such a mood to hear thee sing,
It were a deep delight!—But thou shalt fling
Thy white arm round my neck, and kiss my cheek,
And love the brightness of my gladder eye,
The while I tell thee what a holier joy

It were, in proud and stately step to go,

With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout, To celebrate the shame and absolute rout Unhealable of Freedom's latest foe,

Whose tower'd might shall to its centre nod.

When human feelings, sudden, deep and vast,
As all good spirits of all ages past

Were armied in the hearts of living men,
Shall purge the earth and violently sweep
These vile and painted locusts to the deep,
Leaving un-
undebased,
A world, made worthy of its God.]*

*The two last lines appear exactly thus in the newspaper from which they are derived. It would be a fruitless waste of ingenuity to attempt by conjecture to fill up the hiatuses, or to decide whether they were intentional or arose from the illeg of the Author's MS.-ED.

THE KEEPSAKE.*

'HE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,

THE

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 I loved,)

And, more beloved than they,‡ her auburn hair.

* Printed in The Morning Post, September 17, 1802.

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 (Vergissmein nicht) and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden.

More beloved than all-1802.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
[Leaving the soft bed to her sister]

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
[Her fair face flushing in the purple dawn]

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 sat and stretch'd
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!

* Adown the meadow to the woodbine bower-1802.

Scarcely-flowing-It.

THE DAY-DREAM.*

FROM AN EMIGRANT TO HIS ABSENT WIFE.

IF thou wert here, these tears were tears of light!

But from as sweet a vision did I start

As ever made these eyes grow idly bright!

And though I weep, yet still around my heart A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger, Touching my heart as with an infant's finger.

My mouth half open, like a witless man,
I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room,
Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom;
And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran,

All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling-
I know not what-but had the same been stealing

Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess

It would have made the loving mother dream That she was softly bending down to kiss

Her babe, that something more than babe did seem,

A floating presence of its darling father,
And yet its own dear baby self far rather!

Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm!
As if some bird had taken shelter there;

* Printed in The Morning Post, October 19, 1802.

And lo! I seem'd to see a woman's form

Thine, Sara, thine? O joy, if thine it were ! I gazed with stifled breath, and fear'd to stir it, No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning spirit!

And now, when I seem'd sure thy face to see,
Thy own dear self in our own quiet home;
There came an elfish laugh, and waken'd me :

'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb, And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping. I bless'd him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

WHY need I say, Louisa dear!

How glad I am to see you here,

A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,†

*

* Printed in The Morning Post, December 9, 1799, and in The Annual Anthology, vol. ii., Bristol, 1800. The lines are there entitled "To a Young Lady on her first appearance after a dangerous illness," written in the spring, 1799. The young lady is named Ophelia in the original version of the poem.-ED.

†The breezy air, the sun, the sky,

The little birds that sing on high-1799.