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O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress
Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow. Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
PENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,
A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine Some English, that might strive thine ear to
: I am enabled by the kind- in Little Britain. The poem ness of Mr. W. A. Longmore, is dated, in Mrs. Longmore's nephew of Mr. J. W. Rey- hand, Feb. 5th, 1818, but it nolds, to give an exact tran seems to me impossible that it script of this sonnet as written can have been other than an and given to his mother, by early production and of the the poet, at his father's house especially Spenserian time.
SPENSER! a jealous honour (sic) of thine
A Forester deep in thy midmost Trees
Some English that might strive thine ear to please
But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
It is impossible to escape from toil
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Be with me in the summer days and I
But, Elfin-poet! 'tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill, Fire-wing'd, and make a morning in his mirth.
It is impossible to 'scape from toil O'the sudden, and receive thy spiriting :
The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming:
Be with me in the summer days, and I
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.
ANY the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of Morn;- the laurell’d peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ;The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ?
S from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that nought moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love;
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire
In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,
O'the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air
On holy message sent- What pleasure's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ?
WRITTEN ON A SUMMER EVENING.'
HE church bells toll'd a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound
To some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
* This is a rare instance of the poet's associations with any anti-religious feeling or the free thought of the time. expression, notwithstanding
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs, Fond converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, as they go
Into oblivion - that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp.
TO G. A. W.
YMPH of the downward smile and side
Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe to meet the morning ray, Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance ? Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
And so remain, because thou listenest: But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
That I can never tell what mood is best, I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. 65
AD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell, Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprise : But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I doat upon thee,- call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME
S late I rambled in the happy fields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew VOL. II.