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APPY is England ! I could be content
To feel no other breezes than are blown
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
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.
ON THE ELGIN MARBLES.
Y spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined 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-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable 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.
ENCLOSING THE PRECEDING SONNET.
Definitely of these mighty things ; 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 bebeld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them!
A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAULO AND
S Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lullèd Argus, baffled, swooned and slept ; So on a Delphic reed my idle sprite So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft The dragon world of all its hundred eyes ; And seeing it asleep, so fled awayNot unto Ida, with its snow-cold skies ; Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a dayBut to that second circle of sad hell, Where, 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flow Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw ; Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form I floated with about that melancholy storin.
FTER dark vapours have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts comes round us—as, of leaves
Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheavesSweet Sappho's cheek- -a sleeping infant's breath
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runsA woodland rivulet-a Poet's death,
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 :
The honied lines so freshly interlace,
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I that do ever feel athirst for glory,
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER,
OME hither, all sweet maidens soberly,
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking bewilder'd ʼmid the dreary sea : 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
O horrid dream ! see how his body dips
THE HUMAN SEASONS.
There are four seasons in the mind of man : 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 higb
Is nearest unto heaven ; quiet coves