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To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Where had he been, from whose warm head
outflew That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, Coming ever to bless The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing From out the middle air, from flowery nests, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests Full in the speculation of the stars. Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars; Into some wondrous region he had gone, To search for thee, divine Endymion !
He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infants' eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, The poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate : So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her, Endymion.
Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale does this sweet tale of thine.
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Phæbus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels, And turn’d to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear, That men of health were of unusual cheer; Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal: And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm. The breezes were ethereal, and pure, And crept through half-closed lattices to cure The languid sick: it cool'd their fever'd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burn'd with
thirsting, Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : And springing up, they met the wondering sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair. Young men and maidens at each other gazed, With hạnds held back, and motionless, amazed To see the brightness in each other's eyes; And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. Therefore no lover did of anguish die: But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, Made silken ties, that never may be broken. Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : Was there a poet born ? -- But now no more My wandering spirit must no farther soar.
SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A
O! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
bling. Sometimes when the good knight his rest could
take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th’ half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty, When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, And his tremendous hand is grasping it, And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? Or when his spirit, with more calm intent Leaps to the honours of a tournament,
And makes the gazers round about the ring
The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the
flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking
OUNG Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
To feel the beauty of a silent eve,
low, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone.
And now the sharp keel of his little boat