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Had open’d its rich heart, and there
The ripeness of the world was bare.
And lastly, after that blest pause,
The Sun, down stepping, half withdraws
His head from heaven; and then do we
Break the mute pomp, and ardently
Sing him in glory to the sea.

From The Nymphs.

TO T** L** H**,


Sleep breathes at last from out thee,

My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down and think

Of all thy winning ways,
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand

Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press

And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, –

The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father, too;

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My light, where'er I go,

My bird, when prison-bound, My hand in hand companion,-no,

My prayers shall hold thee round. To say "He has departed"

" His voice-his face-is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on;

Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping !

This silence too the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:-

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Cherubim,

“ We've finish'd here."

Who say,


When lovely sounds about my ears

Like winds in Eden tree-tops rise, And make me, though my spirit hears,

For very luxury close my eyes, Let none but friends be round about

Who love the smoothing joy like me, That so the charm be felt throughout,

And all the harmony.

And when we reach the close divine,

Then let the hand of her I love
Come with its gentle palm on mine

As soft as snow or lighting dove;
And let, by stealth, that more than friend

Look sweetness in my opening eyes,
For only so such dreams should end,

Or wake in Paradise.


The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay, A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen, Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, And there's a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil, of bubbling springs about the grassy soil; And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and seaBreathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

"Tis Nature, full of spirits, waked and springing: The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light, Come gleaming up, true to the wish’d-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

From Rimini,


It was a lovely evening, fit to close A lovely day, and brilliant in repose. Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air ; The soften'd breeze came smoothing here and there; And every tree, in passing, one by one, Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun: For leafy was the road, with tall array, On either side, of mulberry and bay, And distant snatches of blue hills between; And there the alder was with its bright green, And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot, That, like a feather, waves from head to foot, With, ever and anon, majestic pines; And still from tree to tree the early vines Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.


Not that our English clime, how sharp soe’er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turn’d to Italy for added light,
As earth is kiss'd by the sweet moon at night;-
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
ller genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Qur's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,—so may they be, -
England, the high-sould man-the charmer, Italy.

From An Epistle to Lord Byron,


It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,-
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
"Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.


(Sept. 28, 1817.)

It is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling, and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.
The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes,
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the house's side?
As if I could not in a minute, rest
In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my

looks, On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?

It is not that I envy Autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one,
Shakspeare; nor yet,

-oh no,--that here I miss Souls, not unworthy to be named with his:

No; but it is that on this very day,
And upon Shakspeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,
Was born the lass that I love more and more;
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art; a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When, in the golden age, one tune they bore;
MARIAN,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o’e:

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