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Nor vain had been my hope that I had found

In thee the embodied phantasy, whose gleams Kindled my sleep for years, and pour'd around

My path the brightness of a poet's dreams-
Whose voice was to my ear a phantom-sound,

So sweet, that its ideal music seems
E’en now to haunt my sense—that thou wert She
To whom my dearest hopes must cling eternally.

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Tis o'er—but there are words, which thou hast spoken,

Writ on my heart in fire--and now I know The slumber of my soul at length is broken,

Yes, by the stroke that laid its visions low: Perchance hereafter I may find a token

Worthy to speak to thee of all I owe, But never can repay thee_but e'en now I must fulfil one unforgotten vow.


Have I not sworn that from this alter'd lyre

The strains thou lov'st not shall be heard no more? Have I not sworn my spirit shall aspire

(If yet its weaken'd wing hath power to soar) To nobler darings with a pure desire ?

That when this tale is told—these wanderings o'er, My song shall be attuned, with high endeavour, To loftier music or be mute for ever?


Haply, asleep in Reason's secret cells

A power is hid, which yet may make me strong; Haply, the desart of my soul hath wells

Which yet may pour a deeper stream of song; Haply—but oh! awaken'd conscience tells

That I have trifled with my heart too longDeaden'd each nobler impulse, and profaned The strength which Nature for high toils ordain'd.


Yet, from this hour will I, with earnest thought,

Heap knowledge from neglected mines of lore* ; If, haply, by long process, máy be wrought

To steadfast ends my mind's unfashion'd ore: Nor vain shall be the lessons thou hast taught,

Nor vain that purpose which, for thee, I swore I would pursue in silence. --But 'tis time To end this idle and presumptuous rhyme.


The task, which I began in happier hours,

Lies yet a shapeless fragment—and 'twill be Hard to renew, with worn and drooping powers,

That toil whose fruits will yield no joy to thee. Yet--for the feelings that so late were ours

Thou wilt forgive my foolish phantasy, Dallying with bitter jests, as if to ease The aching of unheal'd remembrances.


Perhaps amidst my laughter, thou wilt hear,

At times, a sadder and more solemn tone, Recalling to thine unforgetful ear

Things which are yet reveal'd to thee alone; And thou, I think, wilt hold those accents dear,

And greet them with a pleasure all thine own; Nor shall these gifts, which I so coldly bring, Seem in thy sight a worthless offering.

* “ And from that hour did I, with earnest thought, Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore."




« Then I made a circuit to a place in which nothing was completed."

Book Of Enoch, chap. xxi. v. i.


Four months are past, since I've put pen to paper ;

Four months of mingled sun, and wind, and rain, Fog, thunder, morning frost, and evening vapour;

These soaking summers spoil one's rhyming vein ; But now I'll mend my pen, and trim my taper,

And sit down steadily to work again; Because the public will be glad, I'm sure, To hear some further news of Tryamour.


We left King Arthur and his lovely bride
Safe at Carlisle

the honey-moon was over, The happy pair had now grown sober-eyed,

Yet still, for several months, they lived in clover; She seem'd a guardian-angel at his side,

And he was less a husband than a lover; Soon, from this Virgo, Gemini were born, And then she made King Arthur Capricorn.


I don't know how it happen'd-and, indeed,

Some people think the tale a fabrication
Invented by the Tories, to mislead,

For their own selfish ends, the British nation ;
For my part, I say nothing--you must read,
And then decide ; 'tis true my

Bears hard against the virtue of Queen Guenever,-
But then who can believe so gross a sin of her?

IV. All the world knows Anne Boleyn was a martyr

So was the late Queen Caroline, I've heard ; So might have been the spotless wife of Arthur,

Had similar impeachments been preferr'd;
But her foes fear'd that they might catch a Tartar;

She had such able counsel at her word,
In her defence to bluster and look big,
With spear and target, not with gown and wig.

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- Well ! stories will be told, and fools believe them,

And awkward facts will come perversely out,
Perplexing loyal subjects who receive them.

With most unpleasant mystery and doubt,
I know were I a monarch, I should leave them

To the supreme decision of the knout-
That best Attorney-General--but I'm prating,
While King and Queen and readers all are waiting.


I'm really vastly sorry to detract

From any Sovereign's character-but now, Having no time to ascertain the fact,

I must request you, gentles, to allow That the fair fame of Guenever was crackd,

And that King Arthur wore upon his brow Some ornaments less seemly than his crownOr else the following story won't go down.


But here, at starting, I must just premise

(Lest any readers should look grave and cold) That 'tis not my intention to disguise

A tale immoral in decorous mould.
Approach not me-ye cockneys, good and wise,

And other great philosophers, who hold
That Epicurus is Man's best physician,
And chastity a "monkish superstition."


You think you've found, in me, a new recruit

You're devilishly mistaken I assure you;
I hate your doctrines, and your rhymes to boot,

And tell you, in plain terms, I can't endure you;
I'd thresh you soundly, if I'd time to do't

And thought a canto’s horse-whipping would cure you,
Though, I confess, t’would grieve me to affront
That cleverest coxcomb in the world, Leigh Hunt.

I'll spare thy weaker brethren for thy sake

I love thee, when I laugh at thee, sweet Leigh;
But do, my gentle Indicator, take

A friend's advice, and soon recross the sea.
How can'st thou tarry with the jaded rake,

The heartless bard, the hoary debauchee,
The impotent reviler, who's unfurl'd
His Atheist banner to reform the world?


With all thy follies, thou wast still sincere,

And gentle (save in politics) though blind, And very often silly, and, I fear,

Hast done some harm among the Cockney kind;
But what in that same misanthropic peer,

What, in the name of wonder, could'st thou find,
Which could induce thee to suppose that he
Would make a good enthusiast, simple Leigh?

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Thou wast a faithful and a fit Achates,

Once, to a great Æneas, Percy Shelley-
A vast, though erring spirit, whose sad fate is

A thing which I deplore--but let me tell ye,
You made yourself a monstrous ninny gratis

With that same funeral pile he might as well lie,
Methinks, beneath the turf o'ergrown with flowers,
As dance among the winds and thunder-showers. .

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