DEDICATION. TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. GLORY and loveliness have pass'd away; No crowds of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay I MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Places of nestling green for poets made. — Story of Rimini. STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks newshorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them! And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, A filbert-hedge with wild-briar overtwined, Open afresh your round of starry folds, Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, That in these days your praises should be sung Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away, Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Fanning y the dandelion's down; Than the light music of her nimble toes Patting against the sorrel as she goes. How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught Playing in all her innocence of thought! O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. What next? a tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light. O Maker of sweet poets! dear delight Of this fair world and all its gentle livers; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories. For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature's light? In the calm grandeur of a sober line, We see the waving of the mountain pine; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-briar, And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles |