Nature's observatory-whence the dell, Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. VI. "O one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,, That falls through the clear ether silently. VII. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. UCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, Mand avany goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demense; When a new planet swims into his ken; VIII. ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR. On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen And let there glide by many a pearly car, Let me write down a line of glorious tone, IX. ADDRESSED TO HAYDON. HIGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name, In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: And where we think the truth least understood, Oft may be found a singleness of aim,' That ought to frighten into hooded shame G X. ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. REAT spirits now on earth are sojourning; He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: He of the rose, the violet, the spring, The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo!-whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings? Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. XI. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. HE poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-nown mead; That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead In summer luxury-he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, G XII. TO KOSCIUSKO. OOD Kosciusko, thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling; It comes upon us like the glorious pealing Of the wide spheres-an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, The name of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. It tells me too, that on a happy day, When some good spirit walks upon the earth, |