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I love you for lulling me back into dreams
made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
of old ruinous castles ye tell, where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, when the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
and your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes; what loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
can the wild water-lily restore; what landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, and what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,
in the vetches that tangled their shore. Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear
had scathed my existence's bloom; once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, with the visions of youth to revisit my age, and I wish you to grow on my tomb.
LL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
the Sun die
adown the gulf of Time!
as Adam saw her prime !
the Earth with age was wan,
around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
in plague and famine some!
to shores where all was dumb!
with dauntless words and high,
as if a storm passed by,
'tis Mercy bids thee go:
ere the first day of death is fled,
that fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
and but for that chill, changeless brow,
S rising on its purple wing
the insect-queen of eastern spring
ODE TO EVENING F aught of oaten stop or pastoral song, may hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear (like thy own solemn springs,
thy springs, and dying gales); O nymph reserved,—while now the bright-haired sun sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
with brede ethereal wove,
o'erhang his wavy bed, and air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat with short shrill shriek Aits by on leathern wing,
or where the beetle winds
his small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, maid composed,
to breathe some softened strain, whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, may not unseemly with its stillness suit;
as, musing slow, I hail
thy genial, loved return!
the fragrant Hours, and elves
who slept in buds the day,
the pensive pleasures sweet,
prepare thy shadowy car.
whose walls more awful nod
by thy religious gleams.
that from the mountain's side
views wilds, and swelling floods,
thy dewy fingers draw
the gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, and bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve!
while Summer loves to sport
beneath thy lingering light;
affrights thy shrinking train,
and rudely rends thy robes;
thy gentlest influence own,
W. COLLINS 519 TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
HY do ye weep, sweet Babes ? can tears
speak grief in you,
who were but born just as the modest morn teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas, you have not known that shower
that mars a flower;
nor felt the unkind
or warpt, as we,
who think it strange to see such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, to speak by tears, before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
the reason why
ye droop and weep;
or childish lullaby?
by your tears shed
CORINNA'S GOING A MAYING
ET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
the dew-bespangling herb and tree.
nay, not so much as out of bed ?
nay, profanation to keep in,