IMITATION OF SPENSER1

It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen Of the bright waters; or as when on high,

Through clouds of fleecy white, laught the cerulean sky.

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,

Which, as it were in gentle amity, Rippled delighted up the flowery side; As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried, Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!

Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem. 1813 or 1814. 1817.1

HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF TIME

How many bards gild the lapses 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 Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;

The songs of birds-the whisp'ring of the leaves

The voice of waters-the great bell that heaves

With solemn sound,-and thousand others more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves, Make pleasing music, and not wild up91816. 1817.

roar.

KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING HERE AND THERE

KEEN, fitful gusts are whispering here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on
high,

Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:

For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously
crown'd.
?1816. 1817.

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT

To one who has been long in city pent 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair" And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

No one who once the glorious sun has

seen

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean

For his great Maker's presence, but must know

What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy for thee I hold my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven-Should I rather
kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel
A glowing splendor round about me
hung,

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent
prayer,

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a
death

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo

Like a fresh sacrifice; or if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair

Visions of all places: a bowery nook Will be elysium-an eternal book Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid

And many a verse from so strange influence

That we must ever wonder how, and whence

It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fireside, and haply there dis

Cover

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander

In happy silence, like the clear meander Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its love liness,

Write on my tablets all that was permitted,

All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
Wings to find out an immortality.

Stop and consider! life is but a day :
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's
sleep

While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing school-boy, without grief or
Riding the springy branches of an elm.

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