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So did he feel, who pulld the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees ;.
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet :
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor Nymph,-poor Pan,-how did he weep to

find
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream ! a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? In some delicious ramble, he had found A little space, with boughs all woven round; And in the midst of all, a clearer pool Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping, Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride, Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness, To woo its own sad image into nearness : Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move; But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. So while the poet stood in this sweet spot, Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ;

Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head

outflew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly

singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars ;
Into some wondrous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below; And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling, The incense went to her own starry dwelling. But though her face was clear as infants' eyes, Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, The poet wept at her so piteous fate, Wept that such beauty should be desolate : So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, So every

tale does this sweet tale of thine. O for three words of honey, that I might Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their

keels, Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels, And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. The evening weather was so bright, and clear, That men of health were of unusual cheer ; Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, Or young Apollo on the pedestal : And lovely women were as fair and warm, As Venus looking sideways in alarm. The breezes were ethereal, and pure, And crept through half-closed lattices to cure The languid sick : it cool'd their fever'd sleep, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burn'd with

thirsting, Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: And springing up, they met the wondering sight Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and

stare, And on their placid foreheads part the hair.

Young men and maidens at each other gazed, With bands held back, and motionless, amazed To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,

Until their tongues were loosed in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's

kisses :

Was there a poet born ?-But now no more My wandering spirit must no farther soar.

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry ;
For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days :
But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,
Could charm them into such an attitude.
We must think rather, that in playful mood,
Some mountain breeze had turn'd its chief delight
To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet,
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the worn top of some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent;
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trem-

bling. Sometimes when the good knight his rest could

take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

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