As from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the Eastern light, On pinions that naught moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love;
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even Heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire
Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air On holy message sent-What pleasures higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?
O COME Georgiana! the rose is full blown, The riches of Flora are lavishly strown, The air is all softness, and crystal the streams, The West is resplendently clothed in beams. O come! let us haste to the freshening shades, The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades ; Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns, And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims. And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head: And there Georgiana I'll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat. So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh, Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh: Yet no-as I breathe I will press thy fair knee, And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me. Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses? That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses: So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland. 20 Title] Stanzas to Miss Wylie G. Keats's transcript: To Emma, Woodhouse's.
I 1 Georgiana !] my dear Emma! Woodhouse. III 3 There, beauteous Emma, Woodhouse.
OH! 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.
BEFORE he went to feed with owls and bats Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream,
Worse than an Hus'if's when she thinks her cream Made a Naumachia for mice and rats.
So scared, he sent for that "Good King of Cats" Young Daniel, who soon did pluck away the beam From out his eye, and said he did not deem The sceptre worth a straw-his Cushions old door-mats. A horrid nightmare similar somewhat
Of late has haunted a most motley crew,
Most loggerheads and Chapmen-we are told
That any Daniel tho' he be a sot
Can make the lying lips turn pale of hue By belching out "ye are that head of Gold."
WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF VULGAR SUPERSTITION
THE church bells toll a melancholy round, Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,— A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go. Into oblivion ;-that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp.
AFTER dark vapors have oppress'd 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 month, relieved of 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. The calmest thoughts come round us; as of leaves Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-Autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheavesSweet Sappho's cheek-a smiling infant's breathThe gradual sand that through an hour-glass runsA woodland rivulet-a Poet's death.
[Written at the end of" The Floure and the Lefe"] THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honied lines do 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 hath white Simplicity! What mighty power has this gentle story! I that for 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.
TO HAYDON, WITH A SONNET WRITTEN ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES
HAYDON! forgive me that I cannot speak Definitively on these mighty things;
Forgive me that I have not Eagle's wings- That what I want I know not where to seek: And think that I would not be over meek In rolling out upfollow'd thunderings, Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, Were I of ample strength for such a freak-
Think too, that all those numbers should be thine Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture's hem? For when men star'd at what was most divine With browless idiotism-o'erwise phlegm- Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine
Of their star in the East, and gone to worship them.
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES
My spirit is too weak-mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud; So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old Time-with a billowy main— A sun- a shadow of a magnitude.
COME hither all sweet maidens soberly, Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light, Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see, Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, Sinking away to his young spirit's night,- Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death; Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile: He's gone up bubbles all his amorous breath!
THINK not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any, any where.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,- Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop, then it is gone, O'twas born to die.
Still so pale? then dearest weep; Weep, I'll count the tears, And each one shall be a bliss For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies Are tenderer still.
Yet as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses,
Let us too! but be our dirge A dirge of kisses.
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