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ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.
Sigh-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood.
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,
ADDRESSED TO THE SAME.
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning:
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:
He of the rose, the violet, the spring,
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake: And lo! whose steadfastness would never take
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
And other spirits there are standing apart
These, these will give the world another heart,
Of mighty workings?
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the grasshopper's—he takes the lead
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
Good Kosciusko! thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
Of the wide spheres—an everlasting tone.
And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
It tells me too, that on a happy day,
When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore,
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
To where the great God lives for evermore.
Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent; Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
Enough their simple loveliness for me,
Yet do I often warmly burn to see
And float with them about the summer waters.
THE HUMAN SEASONS.
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
He furleth close ; contented so to look
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER.
Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly,
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
O horrid dream! see how his body dips Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile: He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
TO AILSA ItOCK.
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams!
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sun-beams, Or when grey clouds are thy cold cover-lid l Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep!
Thy life is but two dead eternities— The last in air, the former in the deep;
First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies— Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size.
Among the rest a shepherd (though but young
TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
Than that in which the brother poets joy'd,
Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd
To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.
The thought of this great partnership diffuses
Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling
Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.
Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee
Past each horizon of fine poesy;
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:
But 'tis impossible; far different cares
Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs,"
And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
That I am oft in doubt whether at all
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:
Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!