METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclined Beneath the vast outstretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! Beloved! I were well content to play
With thy free tresses all a summer's day. Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
WHEN last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade; Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with the fair-haired maid. I passed the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain; It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.
WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name? Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach; we trace our stream no higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned,
With glory gotten on the heads abhorred, Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took His meek title, in whose zeal he burned, Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
IF from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be- My verse, which thou to praise wert e'er inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
A TIMID grace sits trembling in her eye, As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody. Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite; peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or Fortune's wrongs unkind: Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTHSEA HOUSE.
JOHN, you were figuring in the gay career
Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy-
Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so great- And still by rightful custom you retain
Much of the old authoritative strain,
And keep the elder brother up in state.
O you do well in this! 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass e'en now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
OI could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves! And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy. And her rude visions give severe delight. O winged bark! how swift along the night Passed thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,- To be resolved into the elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, We two did love each other's company; Time was, we two have wept to have been apart. But when by show of seeming good beguiled, I left the garb and manners of a child,
And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart-
My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art- In what delicious Eden to be found- That I may seek thee the wide world around!
By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk: The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;
And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. With soft and lady speech the first applies The mild correctives that to grace belong To her redundant friend, who her defies With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, What music from your happy discord rises, While your companion hearing each, and seeing, Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes; This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, That harmonies may be in things unlike!
I WAS not trained in Academic bowers, And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; Mine have been anything but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap;
My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk gowned; feel unusual powers.
Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;
And my skull teems with notions infinite.
Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach
Truths which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, And half had staggered that stout Stagirite!
TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE
RARE artist! who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
And press thy powerfulest meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of Nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions, artist fine,
Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace!
WHO first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down
To the ever-haunting importunity
Of business in the green fields, and the town- To plough, loom, anvil, spade-and (oh most sad!) To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, That round and round incalculably reel- For wrath Divine hath made him like a wheel- In that red realm from which are no returnings: Where toiling and turmoiling ever and aye He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.
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