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From two o'erarching oaks between,
Borne on in giddy cheer,
A youth, that ill his steed can guide;
As answering to a voice,
“ 'Tis this mad filly's choice.”
With sudden bound, beyond the boy,
That regal front ! those cheeks aglow!
Thou lovely child of old Du Clos !
Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood,
Sprang on the plighted Maid !
Lies bleeding on the glade.
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be ? — By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree !
HYMN TO THE EARTH.
HEXAMETERS. EARTH! thou mother of numberless children,
the nurse and the mother, Hail ! O Goddess, thrice hail ! Blest be thou ! and,
blessing, I hymn thee ! Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and my
voice shall float on your surgesSoar thou aloft, O my soul ! and bear up my song
on thy pinions.
* The last three lines were quoted in the romance of Ivanhoe (1820), vol. i. p. 156, while this fragment was still unpublished, as follows : “To borrow lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but too little :
“ The Knights are dust,
And their good. swords are rust,
Their souls are with the saints, we trust." From this circumstance Coleridge was convinced that Scott was the author of the Waverley Novels. The lines were composed as an experiment for a metre, and repeated by the author to a mutual friend, who repeated them again at a dinner party to Scott, on the following day. (See Gillman's Life of Coleridge, page 277.)
Travelling the vale with mine eyes-green mea
dows and lake with green island, Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream
flowing in brightness, Thrill'd with thy beauty and love in the wooded
slope of the mountain, Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head
on thy bosom! Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through
thy tresses, Green-hair'd goddess ! refresh me; and hark ! as
they hurry or linger, Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical
murmurs. Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest
sadness Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy
and the heavenly sadness Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and
the hymn of thanksgiving.
Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the
nurse and the mother, Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun,
the rejoicer ! Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom
the comets forget not, Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and
again they behold thee! Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of
Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down
upon thee enamour'd ! Say, mysterious Earth ! O say, great mother and
goddess, Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap
was ungirdled, Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he
woo'd thee and won thee ! Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the
blushes of morning! Deep was the shudder, O Earth ! the throe of thy
self-retention : Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at
thy centre ! Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience;
and forthwith Myriad myriads of lives teem'd forth from the
mighty embracement. Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impell’d by thou
sand-fold instincts, Fill'd, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang
on their channels; Laugh'd on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearn
ing ocean swelld upward; Young life low'd through the meadows, the woods,
and the echoing mountains, Wander'd bleating in valleys, and warbled on blos
WRITTEN DURING A TEMPORARY
IN THE YEAR 1799. O, WHAT a life is the eye ! hat a strange and
inscrutable essence ! Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that
warms him ; Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his
mother; Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that
smiles in its slumber; Even for him it exists! It moves and stirs in its
prison ! Lives with a separate life : and—“Is it a spirit ?”
he murmurs : Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is
only a language !”
MAHOMET. UTTER the song, O my soul ! the flight and re
turn of Mohammed, Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil
and blessing, Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow
persecution, Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites
of the Pagan And idolatrous Christians.—For veiling the Gospel