Elfin court 'twould seem; And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine. To expound such wonder Human speech avails not; Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not. Think of all these treasures, Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ; We thicken fields and bow'rs, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May : Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted. Trees themselves are ours; Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring: The news, and comes pell-mell, And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen Of planet-pressing ocean, We wash our smiling cheeks in peace,-a devotion. Tears of Phoebus,-missings thought for meek Have in us been found, and wise men find them still; Drooping grace unfurls Still Hyacinthus' curls, And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill: Thy red lip, Adonis, Still is wet with morning; And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning. Oh! true things are fables, Fit for sagest tables, And the flow'rs are true things,-yet no fables they; Bright, nor loved of yore,— Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway: Grossest hand can test us; Fools may prize us never ; Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,-marvels sweet for ever. Who shall say, that flowers Dress not heaven's own bowers? Who its love, without us, can fancy,—or sweet floor? To say, we sprang not there,— And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more? Oh! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little, patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness, Thy heart, in pain and weakness, The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may demand Sorrows I've had, severe ones Ah! firstborn of thy mother, My bird when prison bound,— To say, "He has departed,” His voice,"—" his face,"-" is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on : Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping! This silence too the while : Its very hush and creeping THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. KING Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, he sigh'd: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be― He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!" THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT. TO FISH. You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-fac'd, Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be grac'd, O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles A FISH ANSWERS. Amazing monster! that, for aught I know, With the first sight of thee didst make our race Grimly divided from the breast below! With a split body, and most ridiculous pace O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air, I sometimes see of ye an actual pair Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously. THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A SPIRIT, AND AGAIN SPEAKS. Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love; Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, dove- Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves, ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) An angel, writing in a book of gold; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold: And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision rais'd its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, Y |