The face of Poesy: from off her throne

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell,
The very sense of where I was might well

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came
Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
Within my breast; so that the morning light
Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,
Resolving to begin that very day
These lines; and howsoever they be done,
I leave them as a father does his son.

SONNETS.

I.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

MANY the wonders I this day have seen:

The sun, That fill'd the eyes of Morn;-the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;— The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,

when first he kist away the tears

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears

Must think on what will be, and what has been.
E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,

And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

ΤΟ

II.

HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprise :
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell ;
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I dote upon thee,-call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

III.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait?
Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?
Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!
In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair,
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
With daring Milton through the fields of air:

To regions of his own his genius true

Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

IV.

How many bards gild the lapse of time:
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,-I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds-the whisp'ring of the leaves—
The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound, and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.