XIII. HAPPY is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; And half forget what world or worlding meant. Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters. XIV. ON THE ELGIN MARBLES. MY Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, spirit is too weak; mortality And each imagined pinnacle and steep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Bring round the heart an indescribable feud; So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, XV. ENCLOSING THE PRECEDING SONNET. HDefinitely of these mighty things; AYDON! forgive me that I cannot speak Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings, That what I want I know not where to seek. And think that I would not be over-meek, In rolling out upfollowed thunderings, Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, Were I of ample strength for such a freak. Think too, that all these numbers should be thine; Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture's hem? For, when men stared at what was most divine With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm, Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them XVI. A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAULO AND S FRANCESCA. As Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept; So on a Delphic reed my idle sprite So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft Where, 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flow A XVII. FTER dark vapours have oppress'd our plains And calmest thoughts comes round us-as, of leaves Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves Sweet Sappho's cheek-a sleeping infant's breath— The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs— A woodland rivulet-a Poet's death. XVIII. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE. HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse: TH The honied lines so freshly interlace, Come cool and suddenly against his face, Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings XIX. ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER, ◄OME hither, all sweet maidens soberly, Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, light, Fo XX. THE HUMAN SEASONS. OUR seasons fill the measure of the year; He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves |