3017 Tza ́ ́ suit when I shall con The many aris i ny list, years, Lemenores of set and a my peers Wil res ne irvi: a amk of what is gone Will be an avil domein f' He have one.” But when not the Vie I me, no fears Istressed me: from mine eres escaped no tears; Deep thought or read remembrance, had I none. By doches and thousand penny fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the Mashing Thrall; So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small! A Juggler's balls cid Time about him tossed; I looked. I stared. I smiled. I laughed; The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.
BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
On favored ground, thy gift, where I might dwell In neighborhood with One to me most dear,
That undivided we from year to year
Might work in our high Calling, a bright hope
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe.
And should these slacken, honored BEAUMONT !
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore
Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Whether this boon be granted us or not, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore.
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled : His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds : What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
THERE is a little unpretending Rill Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought Notice or name! — It quivers down the hill, Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; Yet to my mind this scanty stream is brought Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought Of private recollection sweet and still! Months perish with their moons; year treads on
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say, That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, And flies their memory fast almost as they, The immortal Spirit of one happy day Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, And the glad Muse at liberty to note All that to each is precious, as we float Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, Happy Associates, breathing air remote From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above, No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?
THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade; Such strains of rapture as the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,
Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.
PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator.
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity.
"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings, Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?” “Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings." A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountains of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all that Art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils; Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?
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