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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,
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with
See those tops, how beauteous !
What fair service duteous
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;
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
Tears of Phæbus,-missings
Of Cytherea's kissings,
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
Oh! true things are fables,
Fit for sagest tables,
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 :-
Who shall say, that flowers
Dress not heaven's own bowers ?
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
TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy ;
Smooths off the day's annoy.
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Of fancied faults afraid;
That wipes thy quiet tears,—
Sorrows I've had, severe ones
I will not think of now;
Have wasted with dry brow:
And pat my stooping head,
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.
“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."
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
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
Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
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
Said Francis, then, “ Faith, gentlemen, we're better here
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
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,-