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Had open’d its rich heart, and there
From The Nymphs.
TO T** L** H**,
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
I sit me down and think
Of all thy winning ways,
That I had less to praise.
Thy thanks to all that aid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
Dread memories for years.
I will not think of now;
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;
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-
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Cherubim,
“ We've finish'd here."
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
As soft as snow or lighting dove;
Look sweetness in my opening eyes,
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.
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.
Fron. Rimini ENGLISH AND ITALIAN POETRY.
Not that our English clime, how sharp soe’er,
From An Epistle to Lord Byron,
It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands,
THOUGHTS OF THE AVON.
(Sept. 28, 1817.)
It is the loveliest day that we have had
And why must I be thinking of the pride
looks, On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?
It is not that I envy Autumn there,
-oh no,--that here I miss Souls, not unworthy to be named with his:
No; but it is that on this very day,