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eye of Love

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 The ripe corn under the undulating air

thunder-storm, Undulates like an ocean ;—and the vines And felt the transverse lightning linger Are trembling wide in all their trellised

warm lines

Upon my cheek — and how we often The murmur of the awakening sea doth

made fill

Feasts for each other, where good will The empty pauses of the blast ;—the outweighed hill

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 The interrupted thunder howls ; above A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun One chasm of heaven smiles, like the Of this familiar life, which seems to be

But is not, --or is but quaint mockery On the unquiet world; — while such Of all we would believe, and sadly blame things are,

The jarring and inexplicable frame How could one worth your friendship of this wrong world :—and then anatoheed the war

mise Of worms ? the shriek of the world's | The purposes and thoughts of men

carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their Were closed in distant years ;-or widely praise ?


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 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 But are not.—I demand if ever we You listened to some interrupted flow Shall meet as then we met ;—and she Of visionary rhyme,—in joy and pain replies,

Struck from the inmost fountains of my Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes ; brain, “I know the past alone—but summon With little skill perhaps ;-or how we home

sought My sister Hope, -she speaks of all to Those deepest wells of passion or of

thought But I, an old diviner, who knew well Wrought by wise poets in the waste of Every false verse of that sweet oracle,

years, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, Staining their sacred waters with our And sought a respite from my gentle

tears; pain,

Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed ! In citing every passage o'er and o'er Or how I, wisest lady! then indued Of our communion--how on the sea. The language of a land which now is shore


whose eyes

the war




their prey,

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

despairFlits round the tyrant's sceptre like a A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, cloud,

A hooded eagle among blinking owls.And bursts the peopled prisons, and You will see Hunt-one of those happy cries aloud,

souls • My name is Legion !”—that majestic Which are the salt of the earth, and tongue

without whom Which Calderon over the desert flung This world would smell like what it is Of ages and of nations; and which found -a tomb; An echo in our hearts, and with the Who is, what others seem; his room sound

no doubt Startled oblivion;— thou wert then to Is still adorned by many a cast from

Shout, As is a nurse- —when inarticulately With graceful flowers tastesully placed A child would talk as its grown parents

about; do.

And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder If hawks chase doves through the flung; ethereal way,

The gifts of the most learn'd among Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts some dozens

Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and Why should not we rouse with the cousins. spirit's blast

And there is he with his eternal puns, Out of the forest of the pathless past Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, These recollected pleasures ?

like duns

You are now Thundering for money at a poet's door ; In London, that great sea, whose ebb Alas! it is no use to say,

“I'm poor!” and flow

Or oft in graver mood, when he will At once is deaf and loud, and on the

look shore

Things wiser than were ever read in Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on book, for more.

Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderYet in its depth what treasures! You

You will see Hogg,--and I cannot exThat which was Godwin,-greater none

press than he

His virtues,—though I know that they Though fallen-and fallen on evil times are great, -to stand

Because he locks, then barricades the Among the spirits of our age and land,

gate Before the dread tribunal of to come Within which they inhabit ;---of his wit The foremost, — while Rebuke cowers And wisdom, you'll cry out when you

pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge-he who sits He is a pearl within an oyster shell, obscure

One of the richest of the deep;-and In the exceeding lustre, and the pure

there Intense irradiation of a mind,

Is English Peacock with his mountain Which, with its own internal lightning fair blind,

Turned into a Flamingo ;-that shy bird

ness. —

will see

are bit.

but you



That gleams i' the Indian air-- have you And the rare stars rush through them not heard

dim and fast :When a man marries, dies, or turns All this is beautiful in every land. Hindoo,

But what see you beside ?-a shabby His best friends hear no more of him?


Of Hackney coaches—a brick house or Will see him, and will like him too, I

wall hope,

Fencing some lonely court, white with With the milk-white Snowdonian Ante

the scrawl lope

Of our unhappy politics ;-or worseMatched with this cameleopard — his A wretched woman reeling by, whose

fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost Mixed with the watchman's, partner of in it;

her trade, A strain too learned for a shallow age, You must accept in place of serenadeToo wise for selfish bigots; let his page Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring Which charms the chosen spirits of the To Henry, some unutterable thing. time,

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Fold itself up for the serener clime Built round dark caverns, even to the Of years to come, and find its recom

root pense

Of the living stems that feed them in In that just expectation. — Wit and whose bowers

There sleep in their dark dew the folded Virtue and human knowledge; all that flowers; might

Beyond, the surface of the unsickled Make this dull world a business of delight,

Trembles not in the slumbering air, Are all combined in Horace Smith.-

and borne And these,

In circles quaint, and ever changing With some exceptions, which I need dance,

Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and Your patience by descanting on,

glance, You and I know in London.

Pale in the open moonshine, but each

I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon Under the dark trees seems a little sun, the night.

A meteor tamed ; a fixed star gone As water does a sponge, so the moonlight astray Fills the void, hollow, universal air- From the silver regions of the milky What see you ?- unpavilioned heaven

way ;is fair

Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Whether the moon, into her chamber Rude, but made sweet by distancegone,

and a bird 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

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

stillPiloted by the many-wandering blast, Now Italy or London, which you will!


not tease

are all


or wan

as it


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, care,

Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew ;And all the dreams which our tormentors - To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures are;

new." Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and

Smith were there,
With every thing belonging to them

THE WITCH OF ATLAS fair !We will have books, Spanish, Italian,

TO MARY Greek; And ask one week to make another (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWweek

ING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS As like his father, as I'm unlike mine,

CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,

How, my dear Mary, are you criticYet let's be merry: we'll have tea and bitten, toast;

(For vipers kill, though dead,) by Custards for supper, and an endless host some review, Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, That you condemn these verses I have And other such lady-like luxuries,

written, Feasting on which we will philosophise! Because they tell no story, false or And we'll have fires out of the Grand

true ! Duke's wood,

What, though no mice are caught by a To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood.

May it not leap and play as grown And then we'll talk;—what shall we cats do, talk about?

Till its claws come? Prithee, for this Oh! there are themes enough for many

one time, a bout

Content thee with a visionary rhyme. Of thought-entangled descant ; With cones and parallelograms and What hand would crush the silken

winged fly, I've sworn to strangle them if once they The youngest of inconstant April's dare

minions, To bother me—when you are with me

Because it cannot climb the purest sky, there.

Where the swan sings, amid the sun's And they shall never more sip laudanum,

dominions? From Helicon or Himeros 1 ; — well, Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom come,

to die, And in despite of God and of the devil, When day shall hide within her twi

light pinions, 1 ' Iuspos, from which the river Himera was the lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, named, is, with some slight shade of difference, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. a synonym of Love.

young kitten,

as to

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To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow, Whose date should have been longer Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial than a day,

climate And o’er thy head did beat its wings for Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow : fame,

A lean mark, hardly fit to fing a And in thy sight its fading plumes rhyme at ; display ;

In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. The watery bow burned in the evening If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor flame,

But the shower sell, the swift sun Can shrive you of that sin,-if sin there
went his way-

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

That any thing of mine is fit to live !


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Bell ;

Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen

Before those cruel Twins, whom at
Considering and retouching Peter

one birth

Incestuous Change bore to her father Watering his laurels with the killing tears

Of slow, dull care, so that their roots Error and Truth, had hunted from the
to hell

Might pierce, and their wide branches

All those bright natures which adorned blot the spheres

its prime, of heaven, with dewy leaves and And left us nothing to believe in, worth flowers; this well

The pains of putting into learned May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire

rhyme, to foil

A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' The over-busy gardener’s blundering toil.

mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.




My Witch indeed is not so sweet a

creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful Her mother was one of the Atlantides : praise

The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beClothes for our grandsons — but she holden matches Peter,

In his wide voyage o'er continents and Though he took nineteen years, and she three days

So fair a creature, as she lay ensolden In dressing. Light the vest of flowing In the warm shadow of her loveliness ;

He kissed her with his beams, and She wears; he, proud as dandy with made all golden

The chamber of gray rock in which she Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress

layLike King Lear's “looped and windowed She, in that dream of joy, dissolved raggedness."



his stays,

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