« AnteriorContinuar »
The face of Poesy : from off her throne
I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay,
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.
MANY the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kist away the tears
That fill'd the eyes of Morn;—the laureld peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,—
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E’en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ?
HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart ; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprise : But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell ; Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I dote upon thee,-call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
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
Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn’dst the key?
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
To regions of his own his genius true
When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
How many bards gild the lapse 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 whisp'ring of the leavesThe voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,-and thousand others more, That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Make pieasing music, and not wild uproar.