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Y.

1801.

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PELION and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled :
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold
And that inspiring Hill, which did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,'
Shines with poetic radiance as of old ;

While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.

Yet round our sca-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds
Ilis double front among Atlantic clouds,

And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

VI.

THERE is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name!-It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought .
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought.

Of private recollection sweet and still!

Months perish with their moons; year treads on 'year;
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they ;
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

VII.

HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note

All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chido

If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote

From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!

While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?

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THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade ; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; (Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; Such strains of rapture as * the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high'; He who stood visible to Mirzah's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread ! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.

See the Vision of Mirzah in the Spectator.

IX.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart,

PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood

For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.

Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide, Even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To ono brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

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