THOUGH the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt, Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect The lingering dew-there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops, Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine, Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine, With brow in penitential sorrow bent!
YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth: Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers ! Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; Pace the long avenue, or glide adown The stream-like windings of that glorious street- An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!
SHAME on this faithless heart! that could allow Such transport, though but for a moment's space; Not while-to aid the spirit of the place- The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough; But in plain daylight: -She, too, at my side, Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, Maintains inviolate its slightest vow! Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive; Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim; Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, And to that brow life's morning wreath restore; Let her be comprehended in the frame Of these illusions, or they please no more.
RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE.
THE imperial Stature, the colossal stride, Are yet before me; yet do I behold
The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould, The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride: And lo! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye, Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far-descried. Who trembles now at thy capricious mood? 'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty King, We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, How Providence educeth, from the spring Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, Which neither force shall check nor time abate!
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD).
WARD of the Law!- dread Shadow of a King! Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room; Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling,
Save haply for some feeble glimmering Of Faith and Hope-if thou, by nature's doom, Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, When thankfulness were best? - Fresh-flowing tears, Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, Yield to such after-thought the sole reply Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears In this deep knell, silent for threescore years, An unexampled voice of awful memory!
FAME tells of groves-from England far away- * Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay: For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill, Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; When, haply under shade of that same wood, And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood- Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.
PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.
[THIS Parsonage was the residence of my friend Jones, and is particularly described in another note.]
WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, And neighbours rest together, here confound Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls
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