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So when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,

Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu! valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd,

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.

SONG.

TUNE-"Julia to the Wood-Robin."

TAY, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,

And let me see thy sparkling eye; O brush not yet the pearl-strung spray,

Nor bow thy pretty head to fly.

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Stay, while I tell thee, fluttering thing,

That thou of love an emblem art;
Yes - patient plume thy little wing,

While I my thought to thee impart.

When summer nights the dews bestow,

And summer suns enrich the day,
Thy notes the blossoms charm to blow,

Each opes delighted at thy lay,

So when in youth the eye's dark glance

Speaks pleasure from its circle bright,

The tones of love our joys enhance

And make superior each delight.

And when bleak storms resistless rove,

And every rural bliss destroy,
Nought comforts then the leafless grove

But thy sweet note --its only joy.

Even so the words of love beguile

When pleasure's tree no flower bears,
And draw a soft endearing smile

Amid the gloom of grief and tears.

ODE TO A POLLO.

I.

I

N thy western halls of gold,

When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,
With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,
Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

II.

Here Homer with his nervous arms

Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,

While the trumpets sound afar:
But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

III.

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells

The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre : The soul delighted on each accent dwells,

Enraptured dwells,—not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

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IV. 'Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres;

Breathless the laurell’d peers,
Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.

V.

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring The Passions a terrific band

And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the

inspiring words.

VI.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers

Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair :Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the soul to pity and to love.

VIII.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,

We listen here on earth :
The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,
From thee, great God of Bards, receive their

heavenly birth. Feb. 1815.

HYMN TO APOLLO.

OD of the golden bow,

And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,

Charioteer

Round the patient year,

Where-where slept thine ire, When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story, Or was I a worm - too low creeping for death?

O Delphic Apollo ! Vol. II.

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The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen'd—the sound

Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under, Muttering to be unbound. O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm ?

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute, Why was I not crush'd —such a pitiful germ?

O Delphic Apollo !

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air ;
The seeds and roots in Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;

The Ocean, its neighbour,

Was at his old labour,

When, who — who did dare To tie for a moment thy plant round his brow,

And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?

O Delphic Apollo !

TO HOPE.

W

HEN by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul

in gloom; When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

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