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And ear in deep attention fix'd, he sits,
Communing with himself, and with the world,
The universe around him, and with all
The beings of his memory, and his hopes;
Till past becomes reality, and joys,
That beckon in the future, nearer draw,
And ask fruition. O! there is a pure,

A hallow'd feeling in these midnight dreams;

They have the light of heaven around them, breathe The odour of its sanctity, and are

Those moments taken from the sands of life,

Where guilt makes no intrusion, but they bloom,

Like islands flow'ring on Arabia's wild.

And there is pleasure in the utterance
Of pleasant images in pleasant words,
Melting like melody into the ear,
And stealing on in one continual flow,
Unruffled and unbroken. It is joy
Ineffable, to dwell upon the lines,
That register our feelings, and portray,
In colors always fresh and ever new,
Emotions, that were sanctified, and lov'd,
As something far too tender and too pure,
For forms so frail and fading. I have sat,
In days, when sensibility was young,
And the heart beat responsive to the sight,
The touch, and music of the lovely one;
Yes, I have sat, entranc'd, enraptur'd, till
The spirit would have utterance, and words
Flow'd full of hope, and love, and melody,
The gushings of an overburden'd heart
Drunk with enchantment, bursting freely forth,
Like fountains in the early days of spring.


The world is full of Poetry-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,

And sparkle in its brightness-Earth is veil'd,
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,
That close the universe, with crystal, in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high
For aught, but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man, in one eternal hymn,
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.

The year

leads round the seasons, in a choir For ever charming, and for ever new,

Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,

The mournful, and the tender, in one strain,
Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand,
Skilful, and mov'd with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls,
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolv'd in ecstacy, to heaven.
'Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move
In measur'd file, and metrical array ;
"Tis not the union of returning sounds,
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme,
And quantity, and accent, that can give
This all-pervading spirit to the ear,
Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines
Man with the world around him, in a chain
Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till
He taste the high communion of his thoughts,
With all existences, in earth and heaven,
That meet him in the charm of grace and
"Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays,
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet,
And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts,
Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments,
That overload their littleness.-Its words
Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break
Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fir'd
The holy prophet, when his lips were coals,
His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts
Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath,
Commission'd to affright us, and destroy.


Passion, when deep, is still-the glaring eye,
That reads its enemy with glance of fire,

The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness,
The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide

The keen, fix'd orbs, that burn and flash below,
The hand firm-clench'd and quivering, and the foot
Planted in attitude to spring, and dart

Its vengeance, are the language, it employs.
So the poetic feeling needs no words

To give it utterance; but it swells, and glows,
And revels in the ecstacies of soul,

And sits at banquet with celestial forms,
The beings of its own creation, fair,
And lovely, as e'er haunted wood and wave,
When earth was peopled in its solitudes,
With nymph and naiad: mighty, as the gods,
Whose palace was Olympus, and the clouds,
That hung, in gold and flame, around its brow;
Who bore, upon their features, all that grand,
And awful dignity of front, which bows
The eye that gazes on the marble Jove,
Who hurls, in wrath, his thunder, and the god,
The image of a beauty, so divine,

So masculine, so artless, that we seem
To share in his intensity of joy,

When, sure as fate, the bounding arrow sped,
And darted to the scaly monster's heart.

This spirit is the breath of nature, blown
Over the sleeping forms of clay, who else
Doze on through life in blank stupidity,
Till by its blast, as by a touch of fire,
They rouse to lofty purpose, and send out,
In deeds of energy, the rage within.
Its seat is deeper in the savage breast,
Than in the man of cities; in the child,
Than in maturer bosoms. Art may prune
Its rank and wild luxuriance, and may train
Its strong out-breakings, and its vehement gusts
To soft refinement, and amenity;

But all its energy has vanish'd, all

Its madd'ning, and commanding spirit gone,
And all its tender touches, and its tones

Of soul-dissolving pathos, lost and hid

Among the measured notes, that move as dead
And heartless, as the puppets in a show.

Well I remember, in my boyish days,

How deep the feeling, when my eye look'd forth

On nature, in her loveliness, and storms.

How my heart gladden'd, as the light of spring
Came from the sun with zephyrs, and with showers,
Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods
To music, and the atmosphere to blow,
Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm.
O! how I gaz'd upon the dazzling blue
Of summer's heaven of glory, and the waves,
That roll'd, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain;
And on the tempest, when it issued forth,
In folds of blackness, from the northern sky,
And stood above the mountains, silent, dark,
Frowning and terrible; then sent abroad
The lightning, as its herald, and the peal,
That roll'd, in deep, deep volleys, round the hills,
The warning of its coming, and the sound,
That usher'd in its elemental war.

And, O! I stood, in breathless longing fix'd,
Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds
Heav'd their dark billows on the roaring winds,
That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood,
A long hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves,
That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore.
Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high
Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure,
As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang
Fresh from the hand, that wrought her; where the eye
Caught not a speck upon the soft serene,
To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud,
That floated, like a lonely spirit, there,
White, as the snow of Zemla, or the foam,
That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctur'd round,
In easy undulations, with a belt

Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair.

Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night,
Mantled in ebon darkness, strow'd with stars
Its canopy, that seem'd to swell, and swell
The higher, as I gaz'd upon it, till,

Sphere after sphere evolving, on the height
Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through,
In glory's full effulgence, and a wave,

Intensely bright, roll'd like a fountain, forth,

Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and stream'd

Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow,

Bathing the heavens in light, the spring, that gush'd,
In overflowing richness, from the breast

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Of all-maternal nature. These I saw,
And felt to madness; but full heart gave


No utterance to the ineffable within.

Words were too weak; they were unknown; but still
The feeling was most poignant: it has gone;

And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er
Pour'd, in a torrent fulness, from the tongue,
Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stor❜d
With all, the patriarchs of British song
Hallow'd, and render'd glorious, cannot tell

Those feelings, which have.died, to live no more.'

pp. 78-84. The second number of Clio is much inferior to the first. We can only take from it The Coral Grove, highly original and imaginative.


Deep in the wave is a Coral Grove,

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea plants lift

Their bows where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars, that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bath'd in slaughter :
There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean,

Are bending, like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,

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