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Nature's observatory-whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,

May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swist

leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

VI.

O one who has been long in city pent,

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And open face of heaven-to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment ?
Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel-an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

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VII.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

M

UCH have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And inany goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his deinense ;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific—and alĩ his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

VIII.

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY

HOUR.

G

IVE me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and

far ;

Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween ;

N

And let there glide by many a pearly car,

Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half-discovered wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears, And as it reaches each delicious ending,

Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres : For what a height my spirit is contending !

'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

IX,

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

IGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,'

That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mong’ring, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause

Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy and Malice to their native sty? Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake :

And lo!-whose steadfastness would never take
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
And other spirits there are standing apart

Upon the forehead of the age to come ;
These, these will give the world another heart,

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
Of mishty workings ?.

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

XI.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

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HE poetry of earth is never dead :

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-inown mead ; That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead

In summer luxury—he has never done

With his delights ; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

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The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there

shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

XII.

TO KOSCIUSKO.

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
Of the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.
And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,

The name of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
It tells me too, that on a happy day,

When some good spirit walks upon the earth,

Thy nanie with Alfred's, and the great of yore
Geutly commingling, gives tremendous birth
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away

To where the great God lives for evermore.

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