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And briony-vine and ivy-wreath
| And Methods of transplanting trees, Ran forward to his rhyming,
To look as if they grew there.
The wither'd Misses ! how they prose
O’er books of travell'd seamen, The linden broke her ranks and rent | And show you slips of all that grows
The woodbine wreaths that bind her, From England to Van Diemen. And down the middle buzz ! she went
They read in arbors clipt and cut, With all her bees behind her:
And alleys, faded places, The poplars, in long order due,
By squares of tropic sunmer shut With cypress promenaded,
And warm'd in crystal cases. The shock-head willows two and two
But these, tho’ fed with careful dirt, By rivers gallopaded.
Are neither green nor sappy ; Came wet-shot alder from the wave,
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,
The spindlings look unhappy.
| Better to me the meanest weed
That blows upon its mountain,
The vilest herb that runs to seed
Beside its native fountain. And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine
And I must work thro' months of toil, From many a cloudy hollow.
And years of cultivation, And was n't it a sight to see,
Upon my proper patch of soil
To grow my own plantation. When, ere his song was ended,
I'll take the showers as they fall, Like some great landslip, tree by tree,
I will not vex my bosom : The country-side descended ;
| Enough if at the end of all And shepherds from the mountain-eaves"
A little garden blossom. Look'd down, half - pleased, half
frighten'd, As dash'd about the drunken leaves
ST. AGNES' EVE. The random sunshine lighten'd!
DEEP on the convent-roof the snows 0, nature first was fresh to men,
Are sparkling to the moon : And wanton without measure ;
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : So youthful and so flexile then,
May my soul follow soon !
| Still creeping with the creeping hours Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, That lead me to my Lord : And scirrhous roots and tendons. Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies, 'Tis vain! in such a brassy age
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soild and dark, Or at the most, when three-parts-sick To yonder shining ground;
With strumming and with scraping, | As this pale taper's earthly spark, A jackass heehaws from the rick,
To yonder argent round; The passive oxen gaping.
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
To that I hope to be.
Thro' all yon starlight keen, They read Botanic Treatises,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, And Works on Gardening thro' there, In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the goiden doors ; | My strength is as the strength of ten, The flashes come and go ;
Because my heart is pure. All heaven bursts her starry floors, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
And strews her lights below, | The hard brands shiver on the steel, And deepens on and up ! the gates The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and Roll back, and far within
fly, For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, The horse and rider reel : To make me pure of sin.
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, The sabbaths of Eternity,
And when the tide of combat stands, One sabbath deep and wide — | Perfume and flowers fall in showers, A light upon the shining sea
That lightly rain from ladies' hands. The Bridegroom with his bride!
How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall !
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall : My good blade carves the casques of men, But all my heart is drawn above,
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 1 Myknees are bow'din crypt and shrine:
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
I hear a noise of hymns :
I hear a voice, but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
And solemn chants resound between.
This weight and size, this heart and
eyes, Are touch'd, are turn’d to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the inountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings futter, voices hover clear : “O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on ! the prize is near.”
By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.
“Bitterly wept I over the stone : | No vain libation to the Muse, Bitterly weeping I turn'd away :
But may she still be kind, There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And whisper lovely words, and use And there the heart of Edward Gray !" Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,
Ere they be half-forgotten; WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL
Nor add and alter, many times,
Till all be ripe and rotten.
I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
These favor'd lips of mine ;
New lifeblood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest
Half-mused, or reeling ripe,
The pint, you brought me, was the best I pledge her silent at the board ;
That ever came from pipe. Her gradual fingers steal
But tho' the port surpasses praise, And touch upon the master-chord
My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Of all I felt and feel.
Is there some magic in the place ?
And phantom hopes assemble ;
No pint of white or red
Had ever half the power to turn Thro' many an hour of summer suns, This wheel within my head, By many pleasant ways,
Which bears a season'd brain about, Against its fountain upward runs
Unsubject to confusion, The current of my days :
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ;
Thro' every convolution.
For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
Where long and largely we carouse I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, As who shall say me nay : Unboding critic-pen,
Each month, a birthday coming on, Or that eternal want of pence,
We drink defying trouble, Which vexes public men,
Or sometimes two would meet in one, Who hold their hands to all, and cry And then we drank it double ;
For that which all deny them Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
Whether the vintage, yet unkept, And all the world go by them.
Had relish fiery-new,
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake,
As old as Waterloo ; Tho' fortune clip my wings,
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) I will not cramp my heart, nor take
In musty bins and chambers, Half-views of men and things.
Had cast upon its crusty side Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; The gloom of ten Decembers.
There must be stormy weather ; But for some true result of good
The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is !
She answer'd to my call, All parties work together.
She changes with that mood or this, Let there be thistles, there are grapes ;
Is all-in-all to all :
She lit the spark within my throat, If old things, there are new ;
To make my blood run quicker, Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Used all her fiery will, and smote Yet glimpses of the true.
Her life into the liquor. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons, And hence this halo lives about As on this whirligig of Time
The waiter's hands, that reach We circle with the seasons.
To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each. This earth is rich in man and maid ;
He looks not like the common breed With fair horizons bound :.
That with the napkin dally ;
From some delightful valley.
The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop, But thro' a kind of glory.
Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And cramm'd a plumper crop ;