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To hover o'er the many-voiced strings
Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still
Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell,
And with recalled images of bliss

Warm my reluctant heart.-Yes, I would throw,
Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand
O'er the responding chords.—It hath not ceased-
It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth
Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;
Still, though unbidden, plays.--Fair Poesy!
The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,
Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,
Have mark❜d full many a day, and week, and month,
Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,
Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd.-Sorceress!
I cannot burst thy bonds!-It is but lift
Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,
Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,
And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,
And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,
Up to the regions of thrice-chastened fire,
Or in the caverns of the ocean flood

Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.
Yet other duties call me, and mine ear
Must turn away; from the high minstrelsy
Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly
Must turn away; there are severer strains,
(And surely they are sweet as ever smote
The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil
Released and disembodied,) there are strains,
Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,
Through the probation of revolving years,
And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,
Have purged and purified.-To these my soul

Aspireth; and to this sublimer end

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep
With patient expectation.-Yea, sometimes
Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes
Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,

And minister strange music, which doth seem
Now near, now distant, now on high, now low,
Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,
And full fruition filling all the soul.

Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe
The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude
Of toil; and but that my fond heart
Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,
When by clear fountain, or embowered brake,
I lay a listless muser, prizing, far
Above all other lore, the poet's theme;
But for such recollections I could brace
My stubborn spirit for the arduous path
Of science unregretting; eye afar
Philosophy upon her steepest height,
And with bold step, and resolute attempt,
Pursue her to the innermost recess,

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.

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Hush'd is the lyre-the hand that swept

The low and pensive wires,

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Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires.

Yes it is still the lyre is still;

The spirit which its slumbers broke

Hath pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke

Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.

Yet I would press you to my lips once more,

Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy:

Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,

M'd with decaying odours; for to me Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, As in the wood-paths of my native

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TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately ne,
Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds;

Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

RAMBLES WITH A FRIEND.

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep,

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sunrise from his healthy bed;
To watch the aspect of the summer morn,
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste delighted of superior joys,
Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes:
With silent admiration oft we view'd

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,
Round which the silvery sun-beam glancing play'd,
And the round orb itself, in azure throne,
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay,
Reviving Nature, hail'd returning day;

Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads,
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sung paans to the source of light:
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aerial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along;
And we have thought how happy were our lot,
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve
Began in every dell her forms to weave,
We might pursue our sports from day to day
And in each other's arms wear life away.

At sultry noon, too, when our toils were done,
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet;

And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept,
Sung woe unto the wicked land—and wept;
Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn

In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.

Then to another shore perhaps would rove,
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;

Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.
Sweet then to us was that romantic band,
The ancient legends of our native land—
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,

And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair,
By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd
Of times when monarch Superstition stalk'd,
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom,
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe.

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell Which summon'd us to school! 'Twas Fancy's knell, And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear,

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.

Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind,
What powers control, the energies of mind!)
Even then we soar'd to many a height sublime,
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.

At evening, too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk,
When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around! no playful breeze
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees;

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