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POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

FINGAL’S CAVE.

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OT Aladdin magian

Ever such a work began;

Not the wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see; Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisled, built up in heaven, Gazed at such a rugged wonder!As I stood its roofing under, Lo! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare; While the surges washed his feet, And his garments white did beat, Drenched about the sombre rocks ; On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again. 56 What is this? and what art thou ?” Whispered I, and touch'd his brow; " What art thou ? and what is this?" Whispered I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes ; Up he started in a trice : "I am Lycidas,” said he, 66 Fam'd in fun'ral minstrelsy ! This was architectur'd thus By the great Oceanus ! Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day;

Here, by turns, his dolphins all,
Finny palmers, great and small,
Come to pay devotion due,
Each a mouth of pearls must strew!
Many a mortal of these days
Dares to pass our sacred ways;
Dares to touch, audaciously,
This cathedral of the sea !
I have been the pontiff-priest,
Where the waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
Soars for ever! Holy fire
I have hid from mortal man;
Proteus is my Sacristan!
But the dulled eye of mortal
Hath passed beyond the rocky portal;
So for ever will I leave
Such a taint, and soon unweave
All the magic of the place.”
So saying, with a Spirit's glance
He dived !

TO

W

HAT can I do to drive away
Remembrance from my eyes ? for they have

seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty ?
When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;
Divine, I say ! - What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes ?

No,

How shall I do
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar ?
Shall I gulp wine ? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love ;

wine is only sweet to happy men ;
More dismal cares
Seize on me unawares,
Where shall I learn to get my peace again ?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck’d and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and

blind, Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged

meads Make lean and lank the stary'd ox while he feeds ; There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet

song, And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone,

with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright ! 0, let me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast ! Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender gaolers of thy waist ! And let me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture in my very hair, O, the sweetness of the pain ! Give me those lips again! Enough! Enough! it is enough for me To dream of thee !

HYMN TO APOLLO.

G D

OD of the golden bow,

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

Charioteer

Of 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 crawling, for death ?

O Delphic Apollo !

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. () why didst thou pity, and for a worm

Vihy touch thy soft lute

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