CHORUS.

[From "Amyntas," 1820.]

HERE is no need of death

To bind a great heart fast;

Faith is enough at first, and Love at last.

Nor does a fond desert

Pursue so hard a fame

In following its sweet aim;

Since Love is paid with its own loving heart,
And oftentimes, ere it work out its story,
It finds itself clasp glory.

THE NUN.

SUGGESTED BY FIRST FOUR LINES OF THE VENETIAN AIR BEGINNING,

"Se moneca ti fai."

["Indicator," No. LXV., Jan. 3rd, 1821. "Works,"

1832.]

you

become a nun, dear,

A friar I will be;

In any cell you run, dear,

Pray look behind for me.

The rose, of course, turns pale too;
The doves all take the veil too;
The blind will see the show;
What! you become a nun, my dear?
I'll not believe it, no.

If you become a nun, dear,

The bishop Love will be ;
The cupids every one, dear,

Will chaunt 66 we trust in thee: "
The incense will go sighing,

The candles fall a dying,

The water turn to wine :

What! you go take the vows, my dear?
You may-but they'll be mine.

SUDDEN FINE WEATHER.'

["Tatler," July 30th, 1831.

"Works," 1832, 1844, 1857,

1860. "Rimini," &c., 1844. Kent, 1889.]

R

EADER! what soul that loves a verse,

can see

The spring return, nor glow like you
and me?

Hear the rich birds, and see the landscape fill,
Nor long to utter his harmonious 2 will?

This more than ever leaps into the veins,
When spring has been delayed by winds and rains,
And coming with a burst, comes like a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below,

1 In the 1832 edition this is called "Lines written in May." In the "Tatler" the poem is described as being extracted from the forthcoming number of the "Englishman's Magazine."-ED.

2 In most editions this word is "melodious," but in the "Autobiography," vol. iii., p. 197, where the whole poem is discussed, L. H. says that it should be "harmonious."-ED.

And all the people culling the sweet prime :
'Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme,
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.

For lo! no sooner have the chills withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And bursts the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.

Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze,

Is but one joy, expressed a thousand ways:

And honey from the flowers, and song from birds,

Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.

Ah friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere, If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year; If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes Returned in cheeks, and raciness in eyes, And all around us, vital to the tips,

The human orchard laughed with cherry lips!

Lord! what a burst of merriment and play, Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May!

So natural is the wish, that bards gone by Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh !

And yet the winter months were not so well : Who would like changing, as the seasons fell?

Fade every year; and stare, midst ghastly friends,
With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends?
Besides, this tale of youth that comes again,
Is no more true of apple-trees than men.
The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs,
Who first found out those worlds of paramours,
Tells us, that every blossom that we see
Boasts in its walls a separate family;

So that a tree is but a sort of stand,
That holds those filial fairies in its hand;
Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy
Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.

It is not he that blooms: it is his race,

Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face.

Ye wits and bards then, pray discern your duty,
And learn the lastingness of human beauty.
Your finest fruit to some two months may reach :
I've known a cheek at forty like a peach.

Here's a bee

But see! the weather calls me.
Comes bounding in my room imperiously,
And talking to himself, hastily burns
About mine ear, and so in heat returns.
O little brethren of the fervid soul,
Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl,
I follow to your fields and tufted brooks :
Winter's the time to which the poet looks

For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honied
books.

SONGS AND CHORUS OF FLOWERS.

["New Monthly Magazine," May, 1836. "Works," 1844, 1857, 1860. "Favourite Poems," 1877.]

E are blushing Roses,

Bending with our fulness,
'Midst our close-capped sister buds,
Warming the green coolness.

Whatsoe'er of beauty

Yearns and yet reposes,

Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,
Took a shape in roses.

Hold one of us lightly,-

See from what a slender

Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms,

And roundness rich and tender.

Know you not our only

Rival flow'r-the human?
Loveliest weight on lightest foot,
Joy-abundant woman?

POPPIES.

We are slumberous poppies,

Lords of Lethe downs,

Some awake, and some asleep,

Sleeping in our crowns.

See also translation from Anacreon with this title,

given below.-Ed.