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Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ?
As blow-ball from the mead?
I know it and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake:
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.
H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
Full often dropping a delicious tear,
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN.
RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear From my glad bosom now from gloominess I mount forever not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Who dares call
Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars
My will from its high purpose? "Stand,"
FTER 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 mouth, relieved from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
as, of leaves
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves,
a sleeping infant's
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass
A woodland rivulet, a Poet's death.
WRITTEN ON THE
SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF "THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.
HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse: The honeyed lines so 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,
What mighty power has this gentle story!
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.