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Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone;
The coachman there careering reels,
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And Coinmerce pours each poring son
In pelt's pursuit and hollos' run:
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The laverock loves the dewy light,

The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,

When song and sunshine fill the air :
But I love best the summer moon,

With all her stars, pure streaming still;
For then, in light and love I meet,

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.

The violets lay their blossoms low,

Beneath her white foot, on the plain;

Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Awake, my Love!

Of her superior presence fain.

O might I clasp her to my heart, Awake, my love! ere morning's ray

And of her ripe lips have my will!
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim grey; For loath to woo, and long to win,
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,

Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
By hunters roused from secret springs :

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.

Refused to set our heads aboon:

Ye might have heard our beating hearts, She comb'd her curling ringlets down,

Our mixing breaths, — all was so still, Lac'd her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;

Till morning's light shone on her locks,
And from her home, by Preston-burn,

Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd, now loud, now Wert thou an idol all of gold,


Had I the eye of worldish care, The goldspink answer'd from the bush;

I could not think thee half so sweet, The plover, fed on heather crop,

Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Call'd from the misty mountain top.

Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,

This tongue be mute, this heart lie still, 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day

Thine every wish of joy and love,
Grows into gold from silvery grey,

My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower bastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

The Poet's Bridal-day Song. Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark

0! my love's like the steadfast sun, The moral of yon carolling lark ?

Or streams that deepen as they run; Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, The warning precept of her song?

Nor moments between sighs and fears;

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James Henry Leigh Hunt, der Sohn eines Geistlichen der anglikanischen Kirche, ward am 19. October 1784 zu Southgate in Middlesex geboren, besuchte die Schule von Christ's Hospital und widmete sich dann literarischen Bestrebungen. Ein eifriger Anhänger der Reform hatte er harte Verfolgungen auszustehn, die er jedoch mannhaft überwand. Er lebte eine Zeit lang in Italien, in näherer Verbindung mit Lord Byron und kehrte dann nach England zurück, wo er vorzüglich bei Zeitschriften betheiligt ist.

Seine Dichtungen (Juvenilia, Feast of the Poets, Francesca da Rimini u. A. m.) erfreuen sich reicher Phantasie, grosser Lebliaftigkeit und warmen Gefühls, sind aber nicht immer frei von Affectation.

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Taste, but with a reverent care;

Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.

See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman

of the flowers.

Uselessness divinest,

Of a use the finest,

Painteth us,

the teachers of the end of use;

Travellers, weary eyed, We are the sweet flowers,

Bless us, far and wide; Born of sunny showers,

Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty

truce: saith;)

Not a poor town window Utterance, mute and bright,

Loves its sickliest planting, Of some unknown delight,

But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple

vaunting breath. All who see us love us, We befit all places:

Sagest yet the uses, Unto sorrow we give smiles,

and unto graces,

Mix'd with our sweet juices, graces.

Whether man, or May-fly, profit of the balm;

As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field, Mark our ways, how noiseless

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the All, and sweetly voiceless,

wildest calm. Though the March-winds pipe, to make our pas

Ev'n the terror, poison, sage clear;

Hath its plea for blooming; Not a whisper tells

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to Where our small seed dwells,

the presuming. Nor is known the moment green, when our tips


And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
We thread the earth in silence,

That thief, the honey maker,
In silence build our bowers,
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!

In his talking rooms a - top, sweet flowers.

How the feasting fumes,

Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The dear lumpish baby

The butterflies come aping
Humming with the May-bee,

Those fine thieves of ours,
Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled

flowers with flowers. The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June,

See those tops, how beauteous! Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the

What fair service duteous
bridegroom pass. Round some idol waits, as on their lord the
Age, the wither'd clinger,

Nine ?
On us mutely gazes,

Elfin court 'twould seem;
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his

And taught, perchance, that dream childhood's daisies. Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon

nights divine.
See (and scorn all duller

To expound such wonder
Taste) how heav'n loves colour;

Human speech avails not;
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory

exhales not.
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,

Think of all these treasures,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to Matchless works and pleasures,

be seen:

Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;

the grass;

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Then think in what bright show'rs

Oh! pray believe that angels We thicken fields and bow'rs,

From those blue dominions, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their wanton May:

golden pinions. Think of the mossy forests

By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as


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