But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, -
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—
• I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

THE VISIONARY HOPE.

San lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strove in vain' the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
Soone royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams:
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would— For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-side bower' Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

The HAPPY HUSBAND. A fraGMENT.

Orr, oft methinks, the while with Thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,
A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert,

That gladness half requests to weep' Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing,

And into tenderness soon dying,
wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again.

A more precipitated vein
Of notes, that eddy in the slow
Of smoothest song, they come, they go,

And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self—a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild Recess!
Love surely hath been breathim; here.
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!

Swells up, then sinks with fain caress,
As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills

Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look that yearning sight

That sense of promise every where?
Beloved! flew your spirit by ?

As when a mother doth explore
The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild!

As whom I long had loved before—
So deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did scem.

To tell me, Love within you wrought—
O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?

Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamour's hour.

ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER LONG ABSENCE,

UNDER stroNG MEdical Recoxixie NDATION NOT TO

bAthe.

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean' How gladly greet I thee once more!

Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild Physician,
• Those briny waves for thee are Death!"

But my soul fulfill'd her mission,
And lo! I breathe untroubled breath

Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly,

Trembling they approach thy waters; And what cares Nature, if they die?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
A thousand recollections bland,

Thoughts sublime, and stately measures,
Revisit on thy echoing strand:

Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking), -
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; -

Silent adorations, making
A blessed shadow of this Earth!

O ye hopes, that stir within me,
Health comes with you from above!

God is with me, God is in me!
I cannot die, if Life be Love.

THE COMPOSITION OF A Kiss.

Cupid, if storying legends' tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix’d,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :
With these the magic dews, which evening brings,
Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,
Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind—
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow
And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe.
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;
Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamour'd dove
Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love.
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,
And to Kisses - was the precious compound's name.
With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,
And breathed on SARA's lovelier lips the rest.

On thy bald awful head, 0 sovran Blanc:
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,
How silently Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
0 dread and silent Mount' I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven'

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest' not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstacy' Awake, Voice of sweet song ' Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale : 0 struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth : Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shatter'd and the same for ever: Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye Ice-falls' ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain– Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents' silent cataracts' Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full Moon Who hade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at vour feet?— God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with bladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds: And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, Aud in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

! stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward 1 drago'd through fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sar, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
in low and languid mood: ” for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within :
Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the Heart not finds
History or prophecy of Friend, or Child,
Or rentle Maid, our first and early love,
Or Father, or the venerable name
of our adored Country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
0 dear, dear England ; how my longing eye
Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!

* The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Gerwasy. * —— — — — when I have saved From some high eminence on goodly vales, And cots and villages embower'd below, The thought would rise that all to me was strange Aluid the scenes to fair, nor one small spot where my tired mind might rest, and call it hone. Soutury's Hymn to the Penates.

My native land! Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who framed Mankind to be one mighty Family, Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, 1796.

Sweet Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
Een now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish' shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth,
Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's Bard," the wondrous boy!
An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope,
Bright flower of Ilope kill d in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom better fate be thine,

Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour
From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame and harmonize
The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

The EOLIAN HARP. composed At clev EdoN, soviefsetshire.

My pensive Sara! thy soft check reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents -
Snatch'd from yon bean-field and the world so hush'd
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of Silence.

And that simplest Lute, Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! How by the desultory breeze caress'd, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its surings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise, -
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untained wing!
O the one life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so fill'd,
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
ls Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my love! as on the midway slope Of yonder hill stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, And many idle flitting phantasies, Traverse my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject lute!

And what if all of animated nature Be but organic harps diversely framed, That trenible into thought, as o'er them sweeps, Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of All? o

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts Din and unhallow'd dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek daughter in the family of Christ! Well hast thou said and holily dispraised These shapings of the unregenerate mind; Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. For never guiltless may I speak of him, The Incomprehensible! save when with awe I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; Who with his saving mercies healed me, A sinful and most miserable Man, Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid!

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT.

Sermoni propriora.-Hon.

Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossom'd; and across the Porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round

was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Walley of Seclusion! Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and look'd
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed place.
And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wings), in whisper'd tones
I've said to me beloved, a Such, sweet girl!
The inobtrusive song of Happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,
And the Heart listens!»

But the time, when first From that low dell, steep up the stony Mount I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top, Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak Mount, The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep; Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields, And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowd, Now winding bright and full, with naked banks; And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey and the Wood, And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire; The Channel there, the Islands and white Sails, Dim Coasts, and cloud-like Hills, and shoreless Ocean– It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,

Had built him there a Temple: the whole World

Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference, No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. Blest hour! It was a luxury-to be!

Ah! quiet dell; dear cot, and mount sublime! I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use? Sweet is the tear that from some toward's eye Drops on the check of One he lifts from Earth : And He that works me good with unmoved face, Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, My Benefactor, not my Brother Man! Yet even this, this cold beneficence Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st The Sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe: Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, Nursing in some delicious solitude Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies: I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

Yet oft, when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes—sweet Abode:

To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed A different fortune and more different mind— Me from the spot where first I sprang to light Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd Its first domestic loves; and hence through life Chasing chance-started Friendships. A brief while Some have preserved me from Life's pelting ills; But, like a tree with leaves of fechle stem, If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once Dropp'd the collected shower; and some most false, False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade Een mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps, Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven, That I woke poison'd' But, all praise to Him Who gives us all things, more have yielded me Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend, Beneath th' impervious covert of one Oak, I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names Of Husband and of Father; nor unhearing Of that divine and nightly-whispering Woice, which from my childhood to maturer years

Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, Bright with no fading colours!

At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
When I remember thee, my earliest Friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;
pidst trace my wanderings with a Father's eye;
And boding evil, yet still hoping good,
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes
Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone
The beatings of the solitary heart,
That being knows, how I have loved thee ever,

Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee!
Oh!'t is to me an ever new delight,
To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;
Or when as now, on some delicious eve,
We, in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot,
Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward; whose old boughs,
That lang above us in an arborous roof,
Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May,
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, Cope with the tempest's swell!

These various strains, Which I have framed in many a various mood, Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance will strike discordant on thy milder mind) If aught of Error or in temperate Truth Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharm'd
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

A TOMBLESS EPITAPh.

'T is true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
Masking his birth-name, wont to character
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal)
'T is true that, passionate for ancient truths, o
And honouring with religious love the Great
Of elder times, he hated to excess,
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,
The hollow puppets of a hollow age,
Ever idolatrous, and changing ever
Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time,
(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war