'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Eolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers

Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair:

Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
And melt the soul to pity and to love,

VIII.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly

birth.

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story,

Or was I a worm— -too low crawling, for death? O Delphic Apollo !

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;

The eagle's feathery mane

For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound
Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,

Muttering to be unbound.

O why didst thou pity, and for a worm

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

Why was not I crush'd-such a pitiful germ? O Delphic Apollo !

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in the Earth

Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,

Was at its old labour,

When, who-who did dare

To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly,

And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now? O Delphic Apollo !

VOL. II.

ON

THINK not of it, sweet one, so ;

Give it not a tear;

Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go

Any-any where.

Do not look so sad, sweet one,—

Sad and fadingly;

Shed one drop (and only one),

Oh! 'twas born to die!

Still so pale? then dearest weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
For each will I invent a bliss
For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;

And thy whispering melodies

Are more tender still.

Yet-as all things mourn awhile

At fleeting blisses;

Let us too; but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.

S

1817.

LINES.

1817.

UNFELT, unheard, unseen,

I've left my little queen,

Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,

Who-who could tell how much
There is for madness-cruel, or complying?

Those faery lids how sleek!

Those lips how moist !-they speak, In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:

Into my fancy's ear

Melting a burden dear,

How "Love doth know no fullness, and no bounds."

True!-tender monitors!

I bend unto your laws:

This sweetest day for dalliance was born!

So, without more ado,

I'll feel my heaven anew,

For all the blushing of the hasty morn.