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ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR.
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, And half-discovered wings, and glances keen. The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, And full of many wonders of the spheres :
For what a height my spirit is contending ! 'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare; Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair: For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found; Of fair-haired Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid' drowned ; Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned.
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
Good Kosciusko! thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing Of the wide spheres—an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
Are changed to harmonies, forever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne It tells me too, that on a happy day,
When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
HAPPY is England ! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own :
To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging;
Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
And float with them about the summer waters.