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As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.

Ev'n the terror, poison,

Hath its plea for blooming ; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker,

That thief, the honey maker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!

In his talking rooms

How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men !

The butterflies come aping

Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with

flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous !

What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine ?

Elfin court 'twould seem;

And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine.

To expound such wonder

Human speech avails not ; Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures

Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ;

Then think in what bright show'rs

We thicken fields and bow'rs, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:

Think of the mossy forests

By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.

Trees themselves are ours;

Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring :

The lusty bee knows well

The news, and comes pell-mell, And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.

Beneath the very burthen

Of planet-pressing ocean, We wash our smiling cheeks in peace,-a thought for meek

devotion.

Tears of Phæbus,-missings

Of Cytherea's kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;

Drooping grace unfurls

Still Hyacinthus' curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill :

Thy red lip, Adonis,

Still is wet with morning;
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning.

Oh! true things are fables,

Fit for sagest tables,
And the flow'rs are true things,-yet no fables they;

Fables were not more

Bright, nor loved of yoreYet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway:

Grossest hand can test us;

Fools may prize us never :-
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,-marvels sweet for ever.

Who shall say, that flowers

Dress not heaven's own bowers ?
Who its love, without us, can fancy-or sweet floor?

Who shall even dare

To say, we sprang not there,And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more ?

Oh! pray believe that angels

From those blue dominions, Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden

pinions.

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.

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 ! firstborn 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 wo, Unless I felt this sleep insure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix’d, and sleeping !

This silence too the whileIts very

hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile :Something divine and dim

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

6 We've finished here."

99

Who say,

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for

whom he sigh'd : And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts

below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went

with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolld on one

another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous

smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the

air :

Said Francis, then, “ Faith, gentlemen, we're better here

than there.”

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always

seem'd the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can

beHe surely would do wondrous things to show his love of

me:

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,-
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be

mine,

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