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And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
When bright processions took their airy march v Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.
But might I now each passing moment give To the coy Muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, That often' must have seen a poet frantic; Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing, And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; Where the dark-leaved laburnum's, drooping
clusters Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, With its own drooping buds, but very white. Where on one side are covert branches hung, 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung
In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof
wrestling There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy,
“ Joy not too much in all that's bloomy."
Yet this is vain- -O Mathew ! lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton ; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet
him Four laurelld spirits, heavenward to entreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blind
ness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could
tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to every heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
While to the rugged north our musing turns,
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
But there are times, when those that love the
bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ; And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach nought on earth but poet's ear, When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals : Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silvering of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run, Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star. Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers, Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. All that's reveald from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,