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These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore;
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue,
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,

Like a sweet nun in holiday attire?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight-
The revelries and mysteries of night:

And should I ever see them, I will tell you

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:

But richer far posterity's award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath,

While his proud eye looks through the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after-times.-The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or in the senate thunder out my numbers,
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious: he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal-night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,

And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:-she from a casket takes
A little book,-and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:

The pearls that on each glistening circlet sleep,
Gush ever and anon with silent creep,

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales and hills are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount upon wide-spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be

Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain

When some bright thought has darted through my brain :
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.

Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
Even now I am pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly towers
Above the ocean waves. The stalks and blades
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats,
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind,
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side outspread, is seen

Ocean's blue mantle, streaked with purple and green;
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark down drooping to his nest,
And the broad-winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,

Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
August, 1816.

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

OFT have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright

So silently it seems a beam of light

Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,-
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

In striving from its crystal face to take

Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them,
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;
For down they rush as though they would be free,
And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;
With shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent,
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
Still scooping up the water with my fingers,
In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see Why I have never penned a line to thee: Because my thoughts were never free and clear, And little fit to please a classic ear; Because my wine was of too poor a savor For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor Of sparkling Helicon:-small good it were To take him to a desert rude and bare, Who had on Baia's shore reclined at ease, While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers: Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream; Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook, And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

And Archimago leaning o'er his book:

Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,
From silvery ripple, up to beauty's queen;
From the sequestered haunts of gay Titania,
To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:

One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks
With him who elegantly chats and talks-
The wronged Libertas-who has told you stories
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;
Of troops chivalrous passing through a city,
And tearful ladies made for love and pity:
With many else which I have never known.
Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown
Slowly, or rapidly-unwilling still

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine:
What swelled with pathos, and what right divine:
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,

And float along like birds o'er summer seas:
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness:
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly?
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?
Showed me that epic was of all the king,
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring?
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell

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