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Then harder, till her grasp at length

Did gtipe like a convulsion! Alas! said she, we ne'er can be

Made happy by compulsion !

Within this arbor, which was still

With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung.

"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,

Deep in a woody dell.




Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, His limbs along the moss, his head

With the old Moon in her arms;

And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
Upon a mossy heap,

We shall have a deadly storm.
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spers. That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.


Well! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made And he had pass'd a restless night,

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, And was not well in health ;

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence The women sat down by his side,

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
And talk'd as 't were by stealth.

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes “ The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which better far were mute.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
"Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
No bigger than your e'e;

And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) "A tiny sun, and it has got

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
A perfect glory too;

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, Make up a glory, gay and bright,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast Round that small orb, so blue.'

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst

they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, And then they argued of those rays,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, What color they might be:

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and Says this, “ they're mostly green;" says that,

live! They're amber-like to me."


A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Were troubling Edward's rest;

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
And the thumping in his breast.

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, " A Mother too!” these self-same words Have I been gazing on the western sky, Did Edward mutter plain ;

And its peculiar tint of yellow green: His faco was drawn back on itself,

And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
With horror and huge pain.

And those thin clouds above, in fakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well

Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen What thoughts were in his mind;

Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew
When he waked up, and stared like one

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
That hath been just struck blind.

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
He sat upright; and ere the dream

Had had time to depart,

My genial spirits fail,
O God forgive me! (he exclaim'd)

And what can these avail
I have torn out her heart.”

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavor,
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with burst

Though I should gaze for ever,
Into ungentle laughter;

On that green light that lingers in the west:
And Mary shiver’d, where she sat,

I may not hope from outward forms to win
And never she smiled after.

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within

IV. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, und To-morrow! and To-morrow!

And in our life alone does nature live :


Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry rung,

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! . Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

What tell'st thou now about? A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

"T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, Enveloping the Earth

With groans of trampled men, with smarting And from the soul itself must there be sent

wounds A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

cold ! V.

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! O pare of heart! thou need'st not ask of me

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be !

With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is What, and wherein it doth exist,

[loud ! This lighi, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and This beautiful and beauty-making power.

A tale of less affright, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,

And temper'd with delight, Sare to the pure, and in their purest hour,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,

'Tis of a little child Life, and Life's EMuence, Cloud at once and Shower,

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother

hear. l'adreamt of by the sensual and the proudJoy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

VIII. We in ourselves rejoice!

"T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colors a suffusion from that light.

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI.

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth. There was a time when, though my path was

With light heart may she rise, rough,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, This joy within me dallied with distress,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

Their life the eddying of her living soul! For hope grew mund me, like the twining vine,

O simple spirit, guided froin above, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, But now affiictions bow me down to earth :

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF But to be still and patient, all I can;

And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural Man-

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER “PASSAGE This was my sole resource, my only plan :

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild !

Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Reality's dark dream!
I tum from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream SPLENDOR's fondly foster'd child!
lf agony by torture lengthen'd out

And did you hail the Platform wild, That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest Where once the Austrian fell without,

Beneath the shaft of Tell ?
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
D: pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
Hal Lutanist! who in this month of showers, From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man;
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!

Enchanting music lulld your infant ear,
* Taim is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart :
the lakens up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
Decore in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
wear atravagant to those who have heard it at night, and
mo9pDous country.

Detain'd your eye from nature · stately vests

That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,

Where once the Austrian fell
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
The unenjoying toiler's misery.

Thence learnt you that heroic measure.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name

Than all the family of Fame ! There crowd your finely-fibred frame,

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age All living faculties of bliss ;

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; And Genius to your cradle came,

For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truih, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,

To thee I gave my early youth, And bending low, with godlike kiss

And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Breathed in a more celestial life;

Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar But boasts not many a fair compeer A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, On him but seldom, power divine, Some few, to nobler being wrought,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Yet these delight to celebrate

Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
Laurell’d War and plumy State ;

And dire Remembrance interlope,
Or in verse and music dress

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
Tales of rustic happiness-

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains !
That steel the rich man's breast,

But me thy gentle hand will lead
And mock the lot unblest,

At morning through the accustom'd mead; The sordid vices and the abject pains,

And in the sultry summer's heat Which evermore must be

Will build me up a mossy seat; The doom of Ignorance and Penury !

And when the gust of Autumn crowds Bur you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune Where once the Austrian fell

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon Beneath the shast'of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
Where learnt you that heroic measure?

To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,
You were a Mother! That most holy name,

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan Which Heaven and Nature bless,

T'he present works of present manI may not vilely prostitute to those

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Whose Infants owe them less

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! Than the poor Caterpillar owes

Its gaudy Parent Fly.
You were a Mother! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,

TO A YOUNG FRIEND, Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!


Without the Mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
O’er the growing Sense to roll,

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, The Mother of your infant's Soul!

But a green mountain variously up-piled, The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides Where o'er the jutting rocks sofi mosses creep, His chariot-planet round the goal of day,

Or color'd lichens with slow oozing weep; All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; A moment turn'd his awful face away ;

And ’mid the summer torrent's ģentle dash And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash; New influences in your being rose,

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet

guiled, With living Nature, in her joys and woes! Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, The shrine of social Liberty!

That rustling on the bushy clift above, ( beautiful! 0 Nature's child!

With melancholy bleat of anxious love, 'Twas thence you hail'd 'he Platform wild, Made meck inquiry for her wandering lamb


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