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XIII.

APPY is England ! I could be content

;

To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent ;
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or worlding meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ;
Erough their simple loveliness for me,

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : Yet do I often warmly burn to see

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters.

XIV.

ON THE ELGIN MARBLES.

MY

Y spirit is too weak; mortality

Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of Godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.

Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,

That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain

Bring round the heart an indescribable feud ;

So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,

That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old Time—with a billowy main

A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.

XV.

ENCLOSING THE PRECEDING SONNET.

HA speak

Definitely of these mighty things ; Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings, That what I want I know not where to seek. And think that I would not be over-meek,

In rolling out upfollowed thunderings, Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, Were I of ample strength for such a freak. Think too, that all these numbers should be thine ;

Whose else ? In this who touch thy vesture's hem ? For, when men stared at what was most divine

With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm, Thou hadst bebeld the full Hesperian shine

Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them!

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XVI.

A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAULO AND

FRANCESCA.

AS

S Hermes once took to his feathers light,

When lullèd Argus, baffled, swooned and slept ; So on a Delphic reed my idle sprite So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft The dragon world of all its hundred eyes ; And seeing it asleep, so fled awayNot unto Ida, with its snow-cold skies ; Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a dayBut to that second circle of sad hell, Where, 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flow Of rain and hailstones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw ; Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form I floated with about that melancholy storin.

XVII.

A

FTER dark vapours have oppress'd our plains

For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved from its pains,

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.

And calmest thoughts comes round us—as, of leaves

Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheavesSweet Sappho's cheek- -a sleeping infant's breath

The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runsA woodland rivulet-a Poet's death,

XVIII.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.

)

TH

HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse :

The honied lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops ;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
Oh ! what a power has white simplicity !

What mighty power has this gentle story!

I that do ever feel athirst for glory,
Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

XIX.

ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER,

OME hither, all sweet maidens soberly,

C light,

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see,

Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking bewilder'd ʼmid the dreary sea : 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.

O horrid dream ! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile :
He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath !

XX.

THE HUMAN SEASONS.

There are four seasons in the mind of man : He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming higb

Is nearest unto heaven ; quiet coves

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