And each one shall be a bliss Brighter has it left thine eyes And thy whispering melodies Are tenderer still. Yet as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses; Let us too; but be our dirge 1817. LINES. NFELT, unheard, unseen, I've left my little queen, Her languid arms in silver slumber lying: Who who could tell how much Those faery lids how sleek! Those lips how moist!- they speak, In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: Melting a burden dear, How "Love doth know no fullness, nor no bounds." True! - tender monitors! I bend unto your laws: This sweetest day for dalliance was born! I'll feel my heaven anew, For all the blushing of the hasty morn. 1817. EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW. S Among the rest a shepherd (though but young His few yeeres could, began to fill his quill. Britannia's Pastorals.- BROWNE. WEET are the pleasures that to verse belong, Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. Fain would I echo back each pleasant note, That I am oft in doubt whether at all I shall again see Phoebus in the morning: But might I now each passing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, That often must have seen a poet frantic; Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing, And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing; Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, With its own drooping buds, but very white. Where on one side are covert branches hung, 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, Yet that is vain O Mathew! lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Apollo changed thee: how thou next didst seem EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. ULL many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely: That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: That the still murmur of the honey-bee Would never teach a rural song to me: That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old. |