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Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : For I am brimfull of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.



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IVE me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen The silver strings of heavenly harp atween :

And let there glide by many a pearly car,

Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears,

And as it reaches each delicious ending,

Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres :

For what a height my spirit is contending! 'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

*This and the preceding introduction to the society were written soon after his of the Vale of Health.


APPY is England! I could be content

To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment

For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:

Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters.


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MALL, busy flames play through the fresh

laid coals, 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.
November 18, 1816.


HE poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot

sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's — he takes the lead

In summer luxury,- he has never done

With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

December 30, 1816.

• This was written in com- brought about an animated petition with Leigh Hunt, discussion on the dumbness whose verses are subjoined. of Nature during the torpidity Keats won as to time. The of Winter. Each thought the expression, "when the frost other's treatment incomparahas wrought a silence," bly superior to his own. VOL. II.




REEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,

Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are

strong At your dear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, In doors and out, Summer and Winter, Mirth!



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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.


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.

A म

FTER dark vapours have oppress'd our

plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away

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