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Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?

Of as uncertain speed
As blow-ball from the mead ?

I know it - and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny !
Whose heart goes flutt’ring for you every where,

Nor, when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home,
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many :

Then, loveliest ! keep me free,
From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,

Or with a rude hand break

The sacrainental cake :
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;

If not — may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.

SONNETS.

I.

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H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the golden

west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far, far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve

From little cares ; to find, with easy quest,

A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
Musing on. Milton's fate -

on Sydney's bier Till their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,
When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

II.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT

LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL

CROWN.

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VRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear

From my glad bosom now from gloominess

I mount forever not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and ’gainst my temples press

Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo! who dares say, “ Do this? Who dares call

down My will from its high purpose ?

66 Stand," Or“ Go ?” This mighty moment I would frown

On abject Cæsars not the stoutest band Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown :

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand !

Who say,

III.

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FTER dark vapors have oppressid our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day

Born of the gentle south, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains,

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,

The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us

as, of leaves Budding, fruit ripening in stillness, - autumn

suns

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves,
Sweet Sappho's cheek, -- a sleeping infant's

breath, The gradual sand that through an hour-glass A woodland rivulet, - a Poet's death.

runs,

Jan. 1817.

IV.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF

AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF “ THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.

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\HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse :

The honeyed lines so freshly interlace,

To keep the reader in so sweet a place, So that he here and there full-hearted stops; And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face, And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power has white simplicity!

What mighty power has this gentle story !

I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

Feb. 1817

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