Be but the essence of deformity,
A coward, did my very eye- lids wink
At speaking out what I have dared to
think.

Ah! rather let me like a madman run
Over some precipice; let the hot sun
Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me
down

Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!

How many days! what desperate turmoil!

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, I could unsay those-no, impossible! Impossible!

For sweet relief I'll dwell On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay

Begun in gentleness die so away. E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:

I turn full hearted to the friendly aids That smooth the path of honor; brotherhood.

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.

The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant

Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round

Parting luxuriant curls;-and the swift bound

Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his

eye

Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. Thus I remember all the pleasant flow Of words at opening a portfolio.

Things such as these are ever harbingers To trains of peaceful images: the stirs Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:

A linnet starting all about the bushes: A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted

Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted

With over pleasure-many, many more,
Might I indulge at large in all my store
Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
Sleep, quiet, with his poppy coronet :
For what there may be worthy in these
rhymes

I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes

Of friendly voices had just given place To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. It was a poet's house who keeps the keys Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung

The glorious features of the bards who sung

In other ages-cold and sacred busts Smiled at each other. Happy he who

trusts

To clear Futurity his darling fame! Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim

At swelling apples with a frisky leap And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward

The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet Bending their graceful figures till they

meet

Over the trippings of a little child :
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild

'Leigh Hunt's. The following lines are a description of the room in which the poem was written, with its decorations.

And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep

That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,

Fresh for the opening of the morning's

eye.

Such dim-conceivéd glories of the brain Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;

So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude

Wasting of old Time-with a billowy main

A sun-a shadow of a magnitude.

1817. March 9, 1817.

ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER COME hither all sweet maidens soberly, Down-looking aye, and with a chastened light

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joinėd be,

As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouched, a victim of your beauty bright,

Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewildered mid the dreary sea: 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips

For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.

O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile:

He's gone up bubbles all his amorous breath! ?.... 1829.

ON THE SEA

IT keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell

Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest

shell

Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell,

When last the winds of heaven were unbound.

Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,

Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;

Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody,Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood

Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! August, 1817. 1848.

WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high piléd books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!-then on the
shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 1817. 1848.

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.