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'Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Breathless the laurel'd peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,

And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.


Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,
And quickly forward spring

The Passions-a terrific band

And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords,

While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.


A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Eolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.


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.


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

Feb. 1815.

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.


GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,

Of the patient year,

Where where slept thine ire,

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 neighbor,
Was at its old labor,

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 honor, to stoop to thee now?

O Delphic Apollo !


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.

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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.



HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very well
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear,
Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel !

Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet,
Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,-
Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush, my dear!
For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.


No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly; And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant, Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.


Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly-sweet!

We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink! Well done-now those lips, and a flowery seat

The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink;

The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and coo, While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!

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