We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners-
In short, as soon as it is day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain !
Whenever you shall come again,
Be you as dull as e'er you could,
(And by-the-by, 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good)
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
And though you stayed a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;
Yet with kind heart, and right good-will,
I'll sit and listen to you still;

Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

MY

A DAY DREAM.

Y eyes make pictures, when they are shut-
I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there.

O Mary make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild rose roofs the ruined shed,
And that and summer well agree:
And lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree !
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon !

And now it is a dark warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Asra, love I thee !'

This brooding warmth across my breast,

This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me !

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither,
But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still-dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all !

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee !

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,

Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women !

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY 1827.

LL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirringbirds are on the wing

And Winter slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, And hope without an object cannot live.

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO.

F late, in one of those most weary hours,

When life seems emptied of all genial powers,

A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;
And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Call'd on the past for thought of glee or grief.

In vain bereft alike of grief and glee,

I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake;
O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design,
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,

The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep

Emerging from a mist; or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, Gazed by an idle eye with silent might

The picture stole upon my inward sight.

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,

As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.

And one by one (I know not whence) were brought All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;

Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,

Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.
And last, a matron now, of sober mien,
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd
Even in my dawn of thought-Philosophy;
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,
She bore no other name than Poesy;

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
That had but newly left a mother's knee,

Prattled and play'd with bird, and flower, and stone,

As if with elfin playfellows well known,

And life reveal'd to innocence alone.

Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,

And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer;
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.
I see no longer! I myself am there,

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings:

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.