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Taste, but with a reverent care;

Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.

See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman

of the flowers.

Uselessness divinest,

Of a use the finest,

Painteth us,

the teachers of the end of use;

Travellers, weary eyed,
We are the sweet flowers,

Bless us, far and wide;
Born of sunny showers,
(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty

Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden

Utterance, mute and bright,

Not a poor town window

Loves its sickliest planting,
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple

But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian

All who see us love us,
We befit all places:

Sagest yet the uses,
Unto sorrow we give smiles,

and unto graces,

Mix'd with our sweet juices, graces.

Whether man, or May-fly, profit of the balm;

As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field,
Mark our ways, how noiseless

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the
All, and sweetly voiceless,

wildest calm. Though the March-winds pipe, to make our pas

Ev'n the terror, poison,
sage clear;

Hath its plea for blooming ;
Not a whisper tells

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to
Where our small seed dwells,

the presuming. Nor is known the moment green, when our tips


And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
We thread the earth in silence,

That thief, the honey maker,
In silence build our bowers,

What a house bath he, by the thymy glen! And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh

In his talking rooms a - top, sweet flowers.

How the feasting fumes,

Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The dear lumpish baby

The butterflies come aping
Humming with the May-bee,

Those fine thieves of ours,
Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled

flowers with flowers. The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June,

See those tops, how beauteous! Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the

What fair service duteous bridegroom pass. Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Age, the wither'd clinger,

Nine ? On us mutely gazes,

Elfin court 'twould seem; And wraps the thought of his last bed in his

And taught, perchance, that dream childhood's daisies. Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon

nights divine. See (and scorn all duller

To expound such wonder Taste) how heav'n loves colour;

Human speech avails not; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory

exhales not. green; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks,

Think of all these treasures, And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to Matchless works and pleasures,

be seen:

Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;

the grass ;

Then think in what bright show'rs

Oh! pray believe that angels We thicken fields and bow'rs,

From those blue dominions, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their wanton May:

golden pinions. Think of the mossy forests

By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as


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Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!

This silence too the while Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile: Something divine and dim

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

Who say, "We've finish'd here."

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!"

The Glove and the Lions.

The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit. King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a

To fish. royal sport,

You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-fac'd, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking Dreary-mouth'd , gaping wretches of the sea, on the court;

Gulping salt water everlastingly, The nobles fill’d the benches round, the ladies Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be by their side,

grac'd, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste; one for whom he sigh'd:

And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be, And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that Some round, some fat, some long, all devilry, crowning show,

Legless, unloving, infamously chaste; Valour and love, and king above, and the royal beasts below.

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laugh- What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull ing jaws;

goggles ? They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a How do ye vary your vile days and nights ?

wind went with their paws; How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll’d

joggles on one another,

In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a

bites, thunderous smother;

And drinks, and stares, diversified with bogThe bloody foam above the bars came whizzing

gles? through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith gentlemen, we're better here than there."

A Fish answers. De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, Amazing monster! that, for aught I know, lively dame,

With the first sight of thee didst make our With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which

always seem'd the same; For ever stare! O flat and shocking face, She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as Grimly divided from the breast below! brave can be

Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go He surely would do wondrous things to show With a split body, and most ridiculous pace his love of me:

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion Long-useless-finn'd, hair’d, upright, unwet, slow!

is divine, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

O breather of unbreathable, sword-ship air,

How canst esist! How bear thyself, thou dry She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then And dreary sloth? What particle canst share

look'd at him and smil'd; Of the only blessed life, the watery? He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the I sometimes see of ye an actual pair lions wild:

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


The Fish turns into a Man, and then into Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. a Spirit, and again speaks.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love; For difference must itself by difference prove: Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room, And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music

An angel, writing in a book of gold;

fill. One of the spirits am I, that at their will

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:

And to the presence in the room he said, Live in whate'er has life fish, eagle, “What writest thou?” The vision rais’d its head,

dove No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.


"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so;" Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,


But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

austere, Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:- The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet It came again, with a great wakening light,


And shew'd the names whom love of God had A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,

bless'd, Quicken'd with touches of transporting fear. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.


Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, die Tochter von Thomas und die Enkelin von Richard Brinsley Sheridan, ward in London 1808 geboren, vermühlte sich in ihrem neunzehnten Jahre mit dem Hon. George Chapple Norton und ward später von ihm, nach englischer Sitte, öffentlich vor Gericht der Untreue angeklagt, ging aber rein und fleckenlos aus diesem skandalösen Process, dem, wie es hiess, eine politische Intrigue zu Grunde lag, hervor. Eine Trennung von ihrem Gatten erfolgte; Mistress Norton nahm darauf ihren Wohnsitz auf längere Zeit in Paris.

Sie hat zwei grössere Dichtungen The Sorrows of Rosalie und the Undying One, so wie viele kleinere lyrische Poesieen geschrieben, die sich sämmtlich durch Grazie, Energie und Gedankenfülle, weniger jedoch durch schöpferische Phantasie auszeichnen.

The Mourners.

Low she lies, who blest our eyes

Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise,

The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep;
She is there, of whom our souls were fond,

Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told

In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,

She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,

Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow,

Then wherefore do we weep?

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And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness

The coaxing smile; the frequent soft ca-

ress; The Mother's Heart.

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disWhen first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, Again my heart a new affection found,

arming! My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest

But thought that love with thee had reach'd treasure,

its bound. My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought any love again might be

At length thou camest; thou, the last and So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.


Nick-named "the Emperor," by thy laughing Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast,

brothers, And natural piety lean'd to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the Yet patient of rebuke when justly given:

others; Obedient, easy to be reconciled;

Mingling with every playful infant wile And meekly cheerful, such wert thou, my A mimic majesty that made us smile:


And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! Not willing to be left; still by my side

An eye of resolute and successful scheming; Haunting my walks, while summer-day was Fair shoulders curling lip and dauntless dying;

brow Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreamThro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,

ing: Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, And proud the lifting of thy stately head, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

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