Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly, Inly armed, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of self-dominion, Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast In intricacies of laborious song. These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. O give me, from this heartless scene released, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, THE KEEPSAKE. THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,) In the cool morning twilight, early waked Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she owned her love, From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht), and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden. TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK." AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, "Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers roar― Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a shipwrecked man! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains The elevating thought of suffered pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. TO A YOUNG LADY. ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. WHY need I say, Louisa dear! A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear, The sunny showers, the dappled sky Believe me, while in bed you lay, up How can we do without her? Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, In the place where you were going: SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL WRITTEN IN GERMANY. IF I had but two little wings, And were a little feathery bird, Το you I'd fly, But thoughts like these are idle things, But in my sleep to you I fly : I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? |