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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 ;

Then think in what bright show'rs

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 ;

Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring :

The lusty bee knows well

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 thought for meek


Tears of Phoebus,--missings

Of Cytherea's kissings,
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 ;

Fables were not more

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?

Who shall even dare

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.


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,

That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,

Of fancied faults afraid ;
The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,-
These, these are things that may

Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones

I will not think of now;
And calmly midst my dear ones,

Have wasted with dry brow:
But when thy fingers press,

And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,-

The tears are in their bed.


Ah! firstborn of thy mother,

When life and hope were new ;
Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father, too :
My light where'er I go,

My bird when prison bound, -
My hand in hand companion,-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say, “ He has departed,”-

“ His voice,"-" his face,”—“ is
To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on :
Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping !

This silence too the while-
Its very bush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile :-
Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,

say, We've finish'd here."


King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court ;
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom

he sigh'd :
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with

their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'don 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


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 beHe surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me : King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will be mine. She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him

and smil'd; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. “ By God !” cried Francis, “rightly done !” and he rose from

where he sat; No love,” quoth he,“ but vanity, sets love a task like that!”



You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-fac'd,

Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,

Gulping salt water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be grac'd,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;

And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,

Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste ;
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,

What is't ye do? What life lead ? eh, dull goggles ?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights ?

How pass your Sundays ? Are ye still but joggles In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites,

And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles ?


Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

With the first sight of thee didst make our race

For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go

With a split body, and most ridiculous pace

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!

O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,

How canst exist! How bear thyself, thou dry And dreary sloth ? What particle canst share

Of the only blessed life, the watery ? I sometimes see of ye an actual pair

Go by ! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.


Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,

O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love ;

For difference must itself by difference prove, And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill. One of the spirits am I, that at their will

Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, dove

No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.

Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves,

Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere, Heaven-gazing ; and his angel-wings he craves :

The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,

Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear.


Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
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.” “ And is mine one?” said Abou.“ Nay, not so ;"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, " I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanish’d. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd,
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.


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