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WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE."
THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse:
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
ON THE SEA.
Ir keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,
ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, THE "STORY OF RIMINI."
WHO loves to peer up at the morning sun,
With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
Of Heaven-Hesperus-let him lowly speak
Will find at once a region of his own,
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
Of unreflecting love!-then on the shore
STANDING aloof in giant ignorance,
Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
So thou wast blind!-but then the veil was rent,
And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.
! ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:-
Than those that made the hyacinthine bell;"
BLUE! 'Tis the life of heaven,-the domain
The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray and dun.
And all its vassal streams: pools numberless
Married to green in all the sweetest flowers-
Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!
TO J. H. REYNOLDS.
O THAT a week could be an age, and we
So time itself would be annihilate,
To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! In little time a host of joys to bind,
And keep our souls in one eternal pant!
This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught
TIME's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb; Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand; Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,
And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky,
But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light;
I cannot look upon the rose's dye,
But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight;
I cannot look on any budding flower,
But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,
And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour
Its sweets in the wrong sense:-Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering,
And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.
*A lady whom he saw for some moments at Vauxhall.
O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;