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Is gathering on the mountains, like a We watched the ocean and the sky cloak

together,

Folded athwart their shoulders broad Under the roof of blue Italian weather; and bare; How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm,

The ripe corn under the undulating air
Undulates like an ocean;-and the vines
Are trembling wide in all their trellised
lines-

The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill

The empty pauses of the blast ;-the

hill

Feasts for each other, where good will outweighed

The frugal luxury of our country cheer, Looks hoary through the white electric As well it might, were it less firm and

rain,

clear

And from the glens beyond, in sullen Than ours must ever be;-and how we strain,

spun

A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun
Of this familiar life, which seems to be
But is not, or is but quaint mockery

The interrupted thunder howls; above
One chasm of heaven smiles, like the
eye of Love
On the unquiet world; while such Of all we would believe, and sadly blame
The jarring and inexplicable frame
Of this wrong world:—and then anato-
mise

But are not.-I demand if ever we
Shall meet as then we met;—and she
replies,

Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes;
"I know the past alone-but summon
home
My sister Hope,—she speaks of all to

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things are,

How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their | Were closed in distant years;—or widely praise?

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come.

But I, an old diviner, who knew well
Every false verse of that sweet oracle,
Turned to the sad enchantress once again,
And sought a respite from my gentle
pain,

guess

The issue of the earth's great business,

You are not here! the quaint witch When we shall be as we no longer are--
Memory sees
Like babbling gossips safe, who hear
the war

In vacant chairs, your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;—
should be
or how

In citing every passage o'er and o'er
Of our communion--how on the sea-

shore

The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes

You listened to some interrupted flow | Of visionary rhyme,—in joy and pain Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain,

With little skill perhaps ;-or how we sought

Those deepest wells of passion or of thought

Wrought by wise poets in the waste of

years,

Staining their sacred waters with our
tears;
Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed!
Or how I, wisest lady! then indued
The language of a land which now is

free,

And winged with thoughts of truth and Flags wearily through darkness and majesty, despair

Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, cloud, A hooded eagle among blinking owls.You will see Hunt-one of those happy souls

And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud,

My name is Legion !"—that majestic
tongue

Which Calderon over the desert flung
Of ages and of nations; and which found
An echo in our hearts, and with the Who is, what others seem; his room

sound

no doubt

66

me

As is a nurse-when inarticulately
A child would talk as its grown parents
do.

Startled oblivion;-thou wert then to Is still adorned by many a cast from

Shout,

With graceful flowers tastefully placed about;

If living winds the rapid clouds pursue,
If hawks chase doves through the
ethereal way,
Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts
their prey,
Why should not we rouse with the
spirit's blast

Out of the forest of the pathless past
These recollected pleasures?
You are now
In London, that great sea, whose ebb
and flow

At once is deaf and loud, and on the
shore

Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more.

Yet in its depth what treasures! You
will see

That which was Godwin,-greater none
than he
Though fallen-and fallen on evil times
-to stand

Among the spirits of our age and land,
Before the dread tribunal of to come
The foremost, while Rebuke cowers
pale and dumb.

Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom

This world would smell like what it is -a tomb;

In the exceeding lustre, and the pure
Intense irradiation of a mind,
Which, with its own internal lightning

blind,

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You will see Coleridge-he who sits He is a pearl within an oyster shell, obscure One of the richest of the deep;-and there

Is English Peacock with his mountain

fair Turned into a Flamingo ;—that shy bird

That gleams i' the Indian air—have you And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast :

not heard

When a man marries, dies, or turns All this is beautiful in every land.-
Hindoo,
But what see you beside?—a shabby
stand

His best friends hear no more of him?—
but you

Will see him, and will like him too, I
hope,
With the milk-white Snowdonian Ante-
lope

Matched with this cameleopard
fine wit

his

Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it;

A strain too learned for a shallow age,
Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page
Which charms the chosen spirits of the
time,

Fold itself up for the serener clime
Of years to come, and find its recom-

pense

In that just expectation.-Wit and

sense,

Virtue and human knowledge; all that might

Make this dull world a business of
delight,

Are all combined in Horace Smith.-
And these,

With some exceptions, which I need

not tease

are all

I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night.

As water does a sponge, so the moonlight
Fills the void, hollow, universal air-
What see you?—unpavilioned heaven
is fair

Your patience by descanting on,-
You and I know in London.

deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast,

Of Hackney coaches-a brick house or wall

Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl

Of our unhappy politics;—or worse-
A wretched woman reeling by, whose

curse

Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade,

You must accept in place of serenade--
Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring
To Henry, some unutterable thing.
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit
Built round dark caverns, even to the

root

Of the living stems that feed them-in whose bowers

There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers;

Beyond, the surface of the unsickled

corn

Trembles not in the slumbering air,

and borne

In circles quaint, and ever changing dance,

Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance,

Pale in the open moonshine, but each

one

Under the dark trees seems a little sun,
A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone

astray From the silver regions of the milky way;

Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Whether the moon, into her chamber Rude, but made sweet by distance— gone, and a bird

or wan

Leaves midnight to the golden stars, Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet Climbs with diminished beams the azure I know none else that sings so sweet as it

steep;

Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse At this late hour;- and then all is still

Now Italy or London, which you will!

Next winter you must pass with me; We'll make our friendly philosophic I'll have

revel My house by that time turned into a Outlast the leafless time; till buds and grave flowers

Of dead despondence and low-thoughted Warn the obscure inevitable hours, Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;— "To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."

care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are;

Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and
Smith were there,
With every thing belonging to them
fair!-

We will have books, Spanish, Italian,
Greek;

And ask one week to make another
week

As like his father, as I'm unlike mine,
Which is not his fault, as you may divine.
Though we eat little flesh and drink no
wine,

Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and
toast;

Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries,—
Feasting on which we will philosophise!
And we'll have fires out of the Grand
Duke's wood,

To thaw the six weeks' winter in our
blood.

And then we'll talk;-what shall we talk about?

Oh there are themes enough for many a bout

Of thought-entangled descant;- -as to

come,

And in despite of God and of the devil,

THE WITCH OF ATLAS

TO MARY

(ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST)

1Iuspes, from which the river Himera was named, is, with some slight shade of difference,

a synonym of Love.

I

How, my dear Mary, are you criticbitten,

(For vipers kill, though dead,) by
some review,

That you condemn these verses I have
written,
Because they tell no story, false or
true!

What, though no mice are caught by a
young kitten,

May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time,

Content thee with a visionary rhyme.

nerves

With cones and parallelograms and What hand would crush the silken

curves

winged fly,

I've sworn to strangle them if once they
dare
To bother me when you are with me
there.

And they shall never more sip laudanum,
From Helicon or Himeros1;-well, Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom

II

The youngest of inconstant April's minions,

Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions?

to die,

When day shall hide within her twilight pinions,

The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.

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III

To thy fair feet a wingèd Vision came,
Whose date should have been longer
than a day,

And o'er thy head did beat its wings for
fame,

And in thy sight its fading plumes
display;
The watery bow burned in the evening
flame,

But the shower fell, the swift sun Can shrive you of that sin,-if sin there

went his way—

be

IV

Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen
years

Considering and retouching Peter

And that is dead. Oh let me not In love, when it becomes idolatry.

believe

That any thing of mine is fit to live!

Bell;
Watering his laurels with the killing tears
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots
to hell

Might pierce, and their wide branches
blot the spheres

Of heaven, with dewy leaves and
flowers; this well

May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire
to foil

The over-busy gardener's blundering toil.

V

My Witch indeed is not so sweet a

creature

As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful
praise
Clothes for our grandsons but she
matches Peter,

Though he took nineteen years, and
she three days
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing

VI

If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow, Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate

Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow :
A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a
rhyme at ;

In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello.
If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor
primate

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In his wide voyage o'er continents and

seas

So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness ;He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden

metre

She wears; he, proud as dandy with
his stays,

Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress
Like King Lear's "looped and windowed She, in that dream of joy, dissolved

raggedness."

away.

The chamber of gray rock in which she lay

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