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, 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; If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be ; Will chaunt 66 we trust in thee: " The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine : What! you go take the vows, my dear? 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 Hear the rich birds, and see the landscape fill, This more than ever leaps into the veins, 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 : 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 no sooner have the chills withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And bursts the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the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, So that a tree is but a sort of stand, 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, Here's a bee But see! the weather calls me. For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honied 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, Whatsoe'er of beauty Yearns and yet reposes, Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, 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? 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. |