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Are the clouds that wander by
skies, Do they draw their life from mine, Or, of their own beauty shine ?
O MESSENGER, art thou the king, Thou dalliest outside the palace gate Till on thine idle armior lie the late And heavy dews: the morn's bright,
scornful eye Reminds thee; then, in subtle
mockery, Thou smilest at the window where I
wait, Who bade thee ride for life. In
empty state My days go on, while false hours
prophesy Thy quick return; at last, in sad
despair, I cease to bid thee, leave thee free
as air; When lo, thou stand'st before me
glad and fleet, And lay'st undreamed of treasures
at my feet. Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to
buy, I am too poor.
Thou art the king, not I.
Now I close my eyes, my ears,
Soul! that all informest, say!
HATH this world, without me
wrought, Other substance than my thought? Lives it by my sense alone, Or by essence of its own, Will its life, with mine begun, Cease to be when that is done, Or another consciousness With the selfsame forms impress ?
Be it thus, or be thy birth
Doth yon fire-ball, poised in air, Hang by my permission there?
Hath this world reality.
F. H. HEDGE.
And odors in the landscape sail, And charm the sense with sudden
But Fate, who metes a different way
To me, since I was falsely sold, Hath gray-haired turned the sunny
day, Bent its high form, and made it old.
IN sweet dreams softer than un
broken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine
infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught
from thee The light of thy great presence; and
Of the half-attained futurity, Though deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars
which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless
infancy. Sure she was nigher to heaven's
spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing
O moaning wind along the shore, How faint thy sobbing accents
come! Strike on my heart with maddest roar, Thou meet'st no discord in this
Sear, blistering sun, these temple
veins; Blind, icy moon, these coldest eyes; And drench me through, ye winter
rains, Swell, if ye can, my miseries.
ODE TO HIMSELF.
WHERE dost thou careless lie
Buried in ease and sloth ? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die: And this security,
It is the common moth That eats on wits and arts, and so
destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springs
Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings ? That not a nymph now sings?
Or droop they as disgraced To see their seats and bowers by
chattering pies defaced ? If hence thy silence be,
As 'tis too just a cause,
Should not on fortune pause; 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
Of fitting objects be not so in
flamed. How much, then, were this king
dom's main soul maimed To want this great inflamer of all
powers That move in human souls! All
realms but yours Are honored with them, and hold
blest that State That have his works to read and
conteinplate, In which humanity to her height is
raised; Which all the world, yet none enough
hath praised. Seas, earth, and heaven, he did in
verse comprise, Outsung the Muses, and did equal
ize Their King Apollo; being so far
from cause Of princes' light thoughts, that their
gravest laws May find stuff to be fashioned by his
lines. Through all the pomp of kingdoms
still he shines, And graceth all his gracers. Then
let lie Your lutes and viols, and more
loftily Make the heroics of your Homer
slig: To drums and trumpets set his angel
tongue; And, with the princely sport of
hawks you use, Behold the kingly flight of his high
muse, And see how, like the Phænix, she
NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR
'Tis not every day that I
THE PRAISE OF HOMER.
Her age and starry feathers in your
sun, Thousands of years attending; every Blowing the holy fire, throwing in Their seasons, kingdoms, nations,
that have been Subverted in them; laws, religions,
all Offered to change, and greedy
funeral, Yet still your Homer lasting, living,
reiguing, And proves how firm Truth builds in poets feigning.
0! 'Tis wondrous much Though nothing prosed, that the right
virtuous touch Of a well written soul to virtue
moves. Nor have we souls t purpose, if
• Rigid in thought and motionless he
stands, Nor quits his theme or posture, till
the sun Disturbs his nobler intellectual
beam, And gives him to the tumult of the world.
Much have I travelled in the realms
of gold, And many goodly states and king
doms seen; Round many western islands have I
been, Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been
told That deep-browed Homer ruled as
his demesne: Yet did I never breatheits pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud
and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the
skies When a new planet swims into his
ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle
eyes He stared at the Pacific, — and all
his men Looked at each other with a wild
surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
SLEEP is like death, and after sleep,
supersensuous founts, The soul to purer vision mounts.
IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of any thing, The verse is weak and shallow as its
But if with bended neck I grope,
God has writ.
Night is fair Virtue's immemorial
friend. The conscious moon through every
distant age Has held a lamp to Wisdom, and let
fall On Contemplation's eye her purging
rav. The famed Athenian, he who wooed
from heaven Philosophy the fair, to dwell with
men, And form their manners, not inflame
their pride; While o'er his head, as fearful to
molest His laboring mind, the stars in si
lence slide, And seem all gazing on their future
Quest, See him soliciting his ardent suit, la private audience; all the livelong
I hearing get, who had but ears,
Now chiefly is my natal hour,
flower, 'Tis peace's end, and war's begin.