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I love you for lulling me back into dreams
of the blue Highland mountains and echoing

and of birchen glades breathing their balm,
while the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
and the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

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.


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LL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

the Sun die
before this mortal shall assume

its Immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
that gave my spirit strength to sweep

adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
that shall Creation's death behold,

as Adam saw her prime !
the Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

the Earth with age was wan,
the skeletons of nations were

around that lonely man!


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Some had expired in fight,—the brands
still rusted in their bony hands;

in plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
and ships were drifting with the dead

to shores where all was dumb!
Yet prophet-like that lone one stood

with dauntless words and high,
that shook the sere leaves from the wood

as if a storm passed by,
saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,
thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'tis Mercy bids thee go:
for thou ten thousand thousand years
hast seen the tide of human tears,
that shall no longer flow,

E who hath bent him o'er the dead

ere the first day of death is fled,
the first dark day of nothingness,
the last of danger and distress,
(before Decay's effacing fingers
have swept the lines where beauty lingers)
and marked the mild angelic air,
the rapture of repose that's there,
the fixed yet tender that streak
the languor of the placid cheek,
and—but for that sad shrouded eye,

that fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,

and but for that chill, changeless brow,
where cold Obstruction's apathy
appals the gazing mourner's heart,
as if to him it could impart
the doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
yes, but for these and these alone,
some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
he still might doubt the tyrant's power;
so fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
the first, last look by death revealed !
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'tis Greece, but living Greece no more!


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S rising on its purple wing

the insect-queen of eastern spring
o'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
invites the young pursuer near,
and leads him on from flower to flower
a weary chase and wasted hour,
then leaves him, as it soars on high,
with panting heart and tearful eye:
so Beauty lures the full-grown child
with hue as bright and wing as wild;
a chase of idle hopes and fears,
begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betrayed,
woe waits the insect and the maid:
a life of pain, the loss of peace,
from infant's play and man's caprice:
the lovely toy so fiercely sought
hath lost its charm by being caught,
for every touch that wooed its stay
hath brushed its brightest hues away,
till charm and hue and beauty gone,
'tis left to fly or fall alone.




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,
as oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,-

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!
for when thy folding-star arising shows
his paly circlet, at his warning lamp

the fragrant Hours, and elves

who slept in buds the day,
and many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

and sheds the fresh’ning dew, and, lovelier still,

the pensive pleasures sweet,

prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
or find some ruin, ’midst its dreary dells,

whose walls more awful nod

by thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

that from the mountain's side

views wilds, and swelling floods,
and hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
and hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

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;
while sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

affrights thy shrinking train,

and rudely rends thy robes;
so long regardful of thy quiet rule,
shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

thy gentlest influence own,
and love thy favourite name!


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
breath of a blasting wind;
nor are ye worn with years;

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;
is it for want of sleep?

or childish lullaby?
or that ye have not seen as yet

the violet?
Or brought a kiss
from that sweet-heart, to this ?
No, no, this sorrow shown

by your tears shed
would have this lecture read,
that things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
conceived with grief are and with tears brought




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ET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn

upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
fresh-quilted colours through the air :
get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

the dew-bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept, and bowed towards the East,
above an hour since: yet you not drest,

nay, not so much as out of bed ?
when all the birds have matins said,
and sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin;

nay, profanation to keep in,
when as a thousand Virgins on this day
spring sooner then the lark to fetch in May.
Rise ; and put on your foliage, and be seen
to come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green;

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