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To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted

strain ('Twixt thee and thine a never failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy spring.

How would it please old Ocean to partake,
With sailors longing for a breeze in vain,
The harmony thy notes most gladly make,
Where earth resembles most his own domain !
Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear
These matins mounting towards her native sphere.

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars
To daylight known deter from that pursuit,
'T is well that some sage instinct, when the stars
Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and mute;
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline
Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!

II.

A FLOWER-GARDEN.

AT COLEORTON HALL, LEICESTERSHIRE.

TELL me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold,
While fluttering o'er this gay recess,
Pinions that fanned the teeming mould
Of Eden's blissful wilderness,
Did only softly stealing hours
There close the peaceful lives of flowers ?

Say, when the moving creatures saw
All kinds commingled without fear,
Prevailed a like indulgent law
For the still growths that prosper here?
Did wanton fawn and kid forbear
The half-blown rose, the lily spare ?

Or peeped they often from their beds
And prematurely disappeared,
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads
A bosom to the sun endeared ?
If such their harsh, untimely doom,
It falls not here on bud or bloom.

All summer long the happy Eve
Of this fair spot her flowers may bind,
Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,
From the next glance she casts, to find

That love for little things by Fate
Is rendered vain as love for great.

Yet, where the guardian fence is wound,
So subtly are our eyes beguiled
We see not nor suspect a bound,
No more than in some forest wild ;
The sight is free as air, -

or crost Only by art in nature lost.

And though the jealous turf refuse
By random footsteps to be prest,
And feed on never-sullied dews,
Ye, gentle breezes from the west,
With all the ministers of hope
Are tempted to this sunny slope !

And hither throngs of birds resort; Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, Some, perched on stems of stately port That nod to welcome transient guests ; While hare and leveret, seen at play, Appear not more shut out than they.

Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)
This delicate inclosure shows
Of modest kindness, that would hide
The firm protection she bestows;
Of manners, like its viewless fence,
Insuring peace to innocence.

Thus spake the moral Muse;

her wing Abruptly spreading to depart, She left that farewell offering, Memento for some docile heart; That may respect the good old age When Fancy was Truth's willing Page ; And Truth would skim the flowery glade, Though entering but as Fancy's Shade.

1824.

III.

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then - all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above,
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstones drop,
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There 's not a breeze, no breath of air, –
Yet here, and there, and everywhere
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,

The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

1799.

IV.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

I.

“BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
Exclaimed an angry voice,
“Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice !”
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Brier-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

II.

“Dost thou presume my course to block ?
Off, off! or, puny Thing !
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling.”

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