Her form seems floating palpable, and near:
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

TO SOME LADIES

WHAT though, while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling? Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea: And now! ah, I see it—you just now are stooping To pick up the keepsake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven;

And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,

The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with

from you;

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean,

Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly

threw.

For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL AND A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES

HAST thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem

Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is ? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis ?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave, Embroidered with many a spring peering flower? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain: And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: 't is the work of a fay;
Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,
When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute

Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listen'd;

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;
Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric.! with joy thou art crown'd;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,

I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers, to bless and to soothe.

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 strayed, 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?

TO HOPE

WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright

ray,

Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy
roof,

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart :
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage
bright,

And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow :
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country's honour fade : O let me see our land retain her soul,

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shedBeneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud