Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!
The visionary arches are not there,
Nor the green islands, nor the shining seas;
Yet sacred is to me this mountain's head,
From which I have been lifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL
PICTURE

(Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.)

PRAISED be the art whose subtle power could stay

Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; [their way, Which stopped that band of travellers on Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing art! which morning, noontide even

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given [time To one brief moment caught from fleeting The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

"WHY, minstrel, these untuneful murmurings[jar?" Dull, flagging notes that with each other "Think, gentle lady, of a harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings."

A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The poetry of life, and all that art

Divine of words quickening insensate things.

From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils :

Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy: what wonder then
If the poor harp distempered music yields
To its sad lord, far from his native fields?

To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child;
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

I

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more,
I lay,
[stealth:
And could not win thee, sleep! by any
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without thee what is all the morning's
wealth?

Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, sleep! [names: And thou hast had thy store of tenderest The very sweetest words that fancy frames,

TO S. H.

EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere
Of occupation, not by fashion led,
Thou turn st the wheel that slept with
dust o erspread;

My nerves from no such murmur, shrinkthough near,

Soft as the dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. [thread She who was feigned to spin our vital Might smile, O lady! on a task once dear To household virtues. Venerable art, Torn from the poor! yet will kind Heaven protect

Its own, not left without a guiding chart, If rulers, trusting with undue respect Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart To proud discoveries of the intellect,

Heavy is woe-and joy, for human-kind, A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined; 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the sufferer s temples bind [shower, Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon, [powers:

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity,
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with His eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with
me here,
(thought,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner
shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid

boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon.
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping
flowers;

For this, for every thing, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might 1, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less
forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

AVOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play, [of clay;

On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of nature trusts the mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within he chosen ring:
While the stars shine, or while day's purple
eye

Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

How sweet it is, when mother fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

An old place, full of many a lovely brood, Tall trees, green arbours, and groundflowers in flocks, stocks, And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn Like a bold girl, who plays her agile pranks