That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone!

Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems)

Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,

Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam,

Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

1798-9.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
A feeling that upbraids the heart
With happiness beyond desert,
That gladness half requests to weep!
Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing,

And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again;-

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
And leave their sweeter understrain
Its own sweet self-a love of Thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be!

1806.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

I.

How warm this woodland wild Recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here;
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!
Swells then sinks with faint caress,

up,

As if to have you yet more near.

II.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

III.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why That asking look? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where ? Beloved! flew your spirit by?

IV.

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild!
As whom I long had loved before-
So deeply, had I been beguiled.

V.

You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remembered in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem

To tell me, Love within you wrought—
O Greta, dear domestic stream!

VI.

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in clamor's hour.

HE too has flitted from his secret nest,

Hope's last and dearest Child without a name !—
Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame,
That makes false promise of a place of rest
To the tir'd Pilgrim's still believing mind;-
Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court,
Who having won all guerdons in his sport,
Glides out of view, and whither none can find!

II.

Yes! He hath flitted from me-with what aim,
Or why, I know not! 'Twas a home of bliss,
And He was innocent, as the pretty shame
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss,
From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow!
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow

As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast-
Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge ;-

Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss,

That well might glance aside, yet never miss,

Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe— Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest!

III.

Like a loose blossom on a gusty night

He flitted from me-and has left behind
(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight)
Of either sex and answerable mind

Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame;-
The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight)
And Kindness is the gentler sister's name.
Dim likeness now, tho' fair she be and good
Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ;-
But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood,
And while her face reflected every look,
And in reflection kindled-she became

So like Him, that almost she seem'd the same!

IV.

Ah! He is gone, and yet will not depart !—
Is with me still, yet I from Him exil'd!
For still there lives within my secret heart
The magic image of the magic Child,
Which there He made up-grow by his strong art
As in that crystal* orb-wise Merlin's feat,—
The wondrous "World of Glass," wherein inisl'd
All long'd for things their beings did repeat;—
And there He left it, like a Sylph beguiled,
To live and yearn and languish incomplete!

* Faerie Queene, B. III. c. 2. s. 19.