M

II.

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?

III.

HA

то

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.

IV.

SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the
steep,

Nature's observatory - whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's
swift leap

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with
thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

v.

OW many bards gild the lapses of time! A few of them have ever been the food Of my delighted fancy, I could brood Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime: And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, These will in throngs before my mind intrude: But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store; The songs of birds of birds the whispering of the leaves The voice of waters the great bell that heaves With solemn sound, and thousand others

more,

That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

VI.

TO G. A. W.

[YMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance!

NY

In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance?
Or when serenely wandering in a trance

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.

VII.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

HAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,

WH

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?
Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?
Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!
In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair,
Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
With daring Milton through the fields of air:
To regions of his own his genius true
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair
When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

VIII.

TO MY BROTHER.

SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh-laid

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.

And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,

That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whispering noise
May we together pass, and calmly try

What are this world's true joys, ere the great
Voice

From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.

IX.

H'

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

IGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy, and malice to their native sty?
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

G

X.

ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.

REAT spirits now on earth are sojourning:
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:
He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo! whose steadfastness would never take A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.

XI.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.

M

UCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen
Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne⚫
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.