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Yet must I doat upon thee,-call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep
’Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
How many bards gild the lapses 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
The songs of birds--the whispering of the leavesThe 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.
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES.
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulousdew
From his lush clover covert ;—when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields ; I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew
I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd;
My sense with their deliciousness was spellid : Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisperd of peace, and truth, and friendliness
TO G. A. W.
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance !
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe to meet the morning ray,
And so remain, because thou listenest :
That I can never tell what mood is best,
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
In his immortal spirit, been as free
Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
To regions of his own his genius true
TO MY BROTHERS.
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly :
May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world's true joys,-ere the great Voice, From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.
November 18, 1816.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
When a new planet swims into his ken;
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR.
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres :
For what a height my spirit is contending! 'Tis not content so soon to be alone,
KEEN fitful gusts are whispering here and there
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare; Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found ; Of fair-haird Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,- to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair.
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,- an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E’en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.