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While rose-buds are opening,
And fruit-trees are blossoming.
How clear-how musical

Is yonder water-fall!

Oh, God! how glorious is the genial ray
That issues from thy "Light of lights" to-day!

Now seek we, my love, yon green-flourishing wood,
That long in theatric luxuriance has stood,
Where paths intersect its dank moss-cover'd steep,
And above 's a turf gallery ample and deep.
Their temples with ivy and oak-apples crown'd,
See, the wood-nymphs advance, now they all dance

Their leafy adornments now rustle and play

With their light limbs as briskly they foot it away:
Come-beneath yon bowering tree

We've prepared a couch for thee;
Such a couch was never seen
Even by our chaste-eyed queen;
Dione never laid her head

On such a spring-embellish'd bed,

Nor Galatea's bosom heaved

Beneath a beech more richly leaved.—

All the many-colour'd bowers

We have rifled of their flowers.

Sweet to us are thy beauties rare,

But sweeter the scent of vernal air:

Sweet is Cytherea's breath,

But fresher far is Flora's wreath.

Thy voice, like the harp of Arion, may please,
But give us the murmuring hum of the bees.
By Pan, thou art a sylvan fairy,
As light, as elegant, as airy;
With thy tresses loosely flowing,
And thy well-turned ankles showing.
Now we place a leafy vest

O'er thy "gently-budding" breast;
While virgins bring their coronets
Of pearls, and blue-vein'd violets,
Showering flowers as is most meet,
Before thy neatly-sandall'd feet;
And fragrance-breathing zephyrs bless
Thy cheeks with lasting loveliness.

'Tis night!

And SHAKSPEARE, near this river, gazed upon

The lovely moon, that now as softly smiles

Upon the stream, as if Endymion

Was bathing there ;-Shakspeare, the kindest, best

Of casuists, who knew humanity,

Nor deem'd the gravest the elect of Heaven !—
See, there's "high-graced" Oberon,

Prince of fairy land,

A moving throne he sits upon,

The sceptre's in his hand.

All-glorious his attire,

With jewels powder'd o'er ;
Each with his silver lyre,
The minstrels go before:-
As dazzling in their cars,
As numerous, as stars
That in Cumana's clime

Fall by thousands at a time;
With their winglets as profuse
As the humming-bird's of hues ;
The light-encircled queen
Now trips along the green;
As beauteous as the rose,
Which lilies white inclose.


THOUGH I might visit scenes which show
The littleness of pride;

Mountains whose heights, o'ertopped with snow,

Man's venturous foot deride; Though on the master-works of art

Intensely I might gaze,

"Till words do but express in part

The fulness of amaze;

Or as o'er ashes of the mighty dead,

With mixed belief and doubtfulness, I tread,

Still, England, still my mind will dwell

On thee, and those I love as well!


SLEEP, my sweet child, within thy mother's arms,
And Heaven protect thy future years from harms!
From throng of passions that assail the best :
From friendship violated; love unblest ;
From fashion's honours purchased at the price
Of health, vain honours, oft allied to vice.

Sleep on, sweet Julia, at thy mother's breast;
Thy proper nurse is watching o'er thy rest:
She gazes on thee with an anxious eye,
And meditates thy future destiny.

On earthly things have angels ever smiled?

On one-the mother bending o'er her child.

Rich is the flower's perfume, sweet girl, to thee; Richer in fragrance shall the musk-rose be, When the young world may open to thy view, And nature's charms, too soon forgot, are new.

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