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And give that faithful bosom joy,
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
Light, life, and rapture, from her smile?
Yes, she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless,
And silent those sweet lips,

Onee breathing eloquence

That might have soothed a tiger's rage,
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.
Her dewy eyes are closed,

And in their lids, whose texture fine
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,
The baby Sleep is pillowed.

Her golden tresses shade
Her bosom's stainless pride,
Curling like tendrils of the parasite
Around a marble column.

CCCXXII. JOHN CLARE, 1793

TO MARY LEE.

I have traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,
My bonny Mary Lee!

Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gather'd all for thee?

They are not flowers of pride,
For they graced the dingle-side;
Yet they grew in heaven's smile,
My gentle Mary Lee!

Can they fear thy frown the while,
Though offeréd by me?

Here's the lily of the vale,
That perfumed the morning gale,
My fairy Mary Lee!

All so spotless and so pale,

Like thine own purity.

And, might I make it known,
'Tis an emblem of my own
Love-if I dare so name
My esteem for thee.

Surely flowers can bear no blame,
My bonny Mary Lee!

Here's the violet's modest blue,

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view,
My gentle Mary Lee,
Would show whose heart is true,
While it thinks of thee.

While they choose each lonely spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly, too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;

So I've brought the flowers to plead, And win a smile from thee. Here's a wild rose just in bud; Spring's beauty in its hood, My bonny Mary Lee!

"Tis the first in all the wood
I could find for thee.

Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love, for I've no power,
My angel, Mary Lee,
To speak unless the flower

Can make excuse for me.
Though they deck no princely halls
In bouquets for glittering balls,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Richer hues than painted walls

Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy

Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee!
Love would make them dearer stili,

That offers them to thee.

My wreathéd flowers are few
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee!

They may seem as trifles too-
Not I hope to thee.

Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise;
None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee;

And can true love wish for more?
Surely not, Mary Lee!

CCCXXIII. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS,

1794-1835.

TREASURES OF THE Deep.

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main?
-Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.
--Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the Depths have more!-What wealth untold
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.

-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main;
Earth claims not those again!

Yet more, the Depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
-Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest,
-Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave-
Give back the true and brave !

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown;
-Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee,
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!

CCCXXIV. CARLOS WILCOX, 1794-1827.

WORK.

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers,
Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night
When death is waiting for thy numbered hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;

Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed;
Do something-do it soon-with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God himself, inactive, were no longer blessed.
Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined.
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. CCCXXV. BARRY CORNWALL [Bryan Waller Procter], 1794-1842.

1. THE FALCON.

The Falcon is a noble bird,

And when his heart of hearts is stirr'd,
He'll seek the eagle, though he run

Into his chamber near the sun.

Never was there brute or bird,

Whom the woods or mountains heard,

That could force a fear or care

From him, the Arab of the air!

To-day he sits upon a wrist,

Whose blue veins a queen has kiss'd,

And on him falls a sterner eye
Than he can face where'er he fly,
Though he scale the summit cold
Of the Grimsel, vast and old,—
Though he search yon sunless stream,
That threads the forest like a dream.
Ah, noble soldier! noble bird!
Will your names be ever heard,-
Ever seen in future story,
Crowning it with deathless glory?
Peace, ho!-the master's eye is drawn
Away unto the bursting dawn!
Arise, thou bird of birds, arise,
And seek thy quarry in the skies!

2. LIFE.

Day dawned-Within a curtain'd room,
Filled to faintness with perfume,
A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed-A child had seen the light;
But for the lady, fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.

Spring rose. The lady's grave was green;
And near it oftentimes was seen
A gentle boy with thoughtful mien.
Years fled-He wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won, at last, a lofty place.

And then-he died! Behold, before ye,
Humanity's poor sum and story;
Life-Death-and all that is of glory.

CCCXXVI. WILL. H. THOMSON,

TO THE BIRDS.

Birds, birds, ye are beautiful things,

[wings.

With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving Where shall man wander, and where shall he dwell, Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountain all rugged and stark, Ye have nests in the forest all tangled and dark,

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