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The mother with anticipated glee
and doth its rosy lips prepare To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight She hears her own voice with a new delight; And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes
Then is she tenfold gladder than before !
FROM THE GERMAN.
know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow, The golden fruits in darker foliage glow? Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue
sky! Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high ! Know'st thou it well that land, beloved Friend? Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend !
FANCY IN NUBIBUS.
OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS.
O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold
'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous
land! Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand
By those deep sounds possessed with inward Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee
[light, Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
THE TWO FOUNTS.
STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY
WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A
SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN.
'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure;
[and he When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.
Methought he fronted me with peering look
every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer! That to let forth, and this to keep within ! But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,
Of Pleasure only will to all dispense,
As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Fv'n so, Eliza ! on that face of thine,
A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing,
Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam
Till audibly at length I cried, as though
look a barbed arrow send, On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend !, Iloard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give !
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN.
A PROSE composition, one not in metre at least, seems prima facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, at which place (sanctum et amabile nomen ! rich by so many associations and recollections) the author had taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and close neighbourhood of a dear and honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to have been written in concert with another, whose name is too venerable within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connection with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for each of the three books or cantos, of which the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed, was to have been finished in one night! My partner undertook the first canto : I the second : and which ever had done first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed by; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a smile moot the question which of the two things was the more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble countenance as at the moment when having despatched my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript—that look of humorous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mockpiteous admission of failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme-which