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When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many

more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore: Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue, With all its diamonds trembling through and

through? Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sightThe revelries and mysteries of night: And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell

you

These are the living pleasures of the bard : But richer far posterity's award. What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of

death? “What though I leave this dull and earthly mould, Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold With after times.—The patriot shall feel My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers,
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious: he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal-night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with

play,
And form’d a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red :
For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep :-she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart-with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling

eyes : For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; One that I fosterd in my youthful years : The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,

Be lulld with songs of mine. Fair world adieu !
Thy dales and hills are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters

fair, And warm thy sons !” Ah, my dear friend and

brother, Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Happier, and dearer to society. At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through

my brain:

Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure. As to my sonnets, though none else should heed

them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best loved employ

ment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I

thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. E’en now I am pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly towers Above the ocean waves. The stalks and blades Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.

On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet

coats,
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle, streak’d with purple and

green ; Now 'tis I see a canvas'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, And the broad-wing'd sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea. Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sun-beams drest : Why westward turn ? 'Twas but to say adieu ! 'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you !

August, 1816.

TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

OFT have you seen a swan superbly frowning, And with proud breast his own white shadow

crowning; He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the galaxy: anon he sports, With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. But not a moment can he there ensure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; For down they rush as though they would be

free, And drop like hours into eternity. Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

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