'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings:

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
And always fair, rare land of courtesy !

O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills,
And famous Arno, fed with all their rills;
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old
And forests, where beside his leafy hold
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;
Palladian palace with its storied halls;
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls;
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
And Nature makes her happy home with man ;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn,-
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine;
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!
'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
The new-found roll of old Mæonides ;*
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart! +

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,

Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,

Where, half-concealed, the eye of fancy views
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to
thy muse !

*Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first introduced the works of Homer to his countrymen.

I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio: where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Incominciò Racheo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzione con intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi cuori accendere."

1829.

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !

LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT.

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE.

LIKE a lone Arab, old and blind,
Some caravan had left behind

Who sits beside a ruin'd well,

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;
And now he hangs his aged head aslant,
And listens for a human sound-in vain!

And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ;-
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,

With brow low bent, within my garden bower,
I sate upon the couch of camomile;

And-whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,
Flitted across the idle brain, the while

i watched the sickly calm with aimless scope,
In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,
Turn'd my eye inward-thee, O genial Hope,
Love's elder sister! thee did I behold,

Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim
Lie lifeless at my feet!

And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,
And stood beside my seat;

She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips,
As she was wont to do ;-
Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath
Woke just enough of life in death
To make Hope die anew.

1830.

L'ENVOY.

IN vain we supplicate the Powers above;

There is no resurrection for the Love

That, nurst in tenderest care, yet fades away
In the chilled heart by gradual self-decay.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE.

Now! it is gone.-Our brief hours travel post,
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How :—
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee-an eternal Now!

LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION.

O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;

Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it,-so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of Education,- Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks, I see them grouped, in seemly show
The straightened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.

But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes,

And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,

Woos back the fleeting spirit and half-supplies ;

Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length

Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.

-E caelo descendit γνῶθι σεαυτὸν.-JUVENAL.

Γνῶθι σεαυτὸν !—and is this the prime

And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time !-
Say, canst thou make thyself?-Learn first that trade ;-
Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made.

What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine own?→
What is there in thee, Man, that can be known?—
Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought,

A phantom dim of past and future wrought,
Vain sister of the worm,-life, death, soul, clod-
Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God!

MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY.

GOD's child in Christ adopted,-Christ my all,-
What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather
Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call
The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?-
Father in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee-
Eternal Thou, and everlasting we.

The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death:
In Christ I live! in Christ I draw the breath
Of the true life!-Let then earth, sea, and sky
Make war against me! On my front I show
Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try
To end my life, that can but end its woe.-
Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies?-
Yes! but not his-'tis Death itself there dies.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

THIS day among the faithful placed,

And fed with fontal manna,

O with maternal title graced,

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayer,—
May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name-a potent spell,―
That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye;-

Meek quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle;
True love; and true love's innocence,
White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child!
These virtues may'st thou win;

With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within.

So, when, her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be mist here;

When Heaven at length shall claim its own,
And angels snatch their sister,

Some hoary-headed friend perchance
May gaze with stifled breath,
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I view'd,

In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud, that, green and rude,

Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanc'd I pass'd again that way

In autumn's latest hour,

And wond'ring saw the self-same spray

Rich with the self-same flower.

1796.

Ah! fond deceit! the rude, green bud,
Alike in shape, place, name,

Had bloom'd where bloom'd the parent stud,
Another, and the same!

MUTUAL PASSION.

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.

I LOVE and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who:

For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too.

Yet while my joy's unknown,

Its rosy buds are but half blown;

What no one with me shares. seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me;

But then, if I grow jealous mad,

And of them pitied be,

'Twould vex me worse than scorn!

And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair

And fresh, and fragrant too;

As after rain the summer air,
And looks as lilies do,

That are this morning blown!

Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known,
Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown.
But he hath eyes so large and bright,
Which none can see and doubt
That Love might thence his torches light
Tho' Hate had put them out!

But then to raise my fears,

His voice-what maid so ever hears
Will be my rival, tho' she have but ears.

I'll tell no more! yet I love him,
And he loves me; yet so,

That never one low wish did dim
Our love's pure light, I know—

In each so free from blame

That both of us would gain new fame If love's strong fears would let me tell his name. From the edition of 1817.