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Loathing 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 wo:
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. 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.

Or lies the purple evening on the bay
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 outhouse shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of wo, 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 fox-glove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath th' 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
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,
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)
Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood

Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring re-
turn'd,

She would resign one-half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

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;

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, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden.

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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!"

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 heal

ing,

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 noontide bower!

Or let it stay! yet this one hope should give
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

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 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

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 everywhere? Beloved flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose mark on her long-lost child, I met, I loved ycu, 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 meek 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 clamour'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, Its own sweet self-a love of thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

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 th' Idalian star by faery wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join❜d,
Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind-
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness
glow,

And hope, the blameless parasite of wo.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;

Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamour'd dove

Pours the soft murmuring 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.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE 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 his steep course? So long he seems to pause

* Effinixt quondam blandum meditata laborem
Basia lascivâ Cypria Diva manâ.
Ambrosiæ succos occultâ temperat arte,
Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.
Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim
Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.

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
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
thought,
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
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
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?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
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!

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. Ex his composuit Dea basia; et omnia libans Invenias nitidæ sparsa per ora Cloës.

Carm. Quod. Vol. II.

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!

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost!
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates 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 raised my head, a while bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou queen,
Thou delegated deity of earth,

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

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,

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Himself our Father, and the world our home.
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

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN
THE 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,

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. I moved on
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,

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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!
An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
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
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour
From anxious SELF, life's cruel task-master!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
Th' attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tones
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,

Chatterton.

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