And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares

Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds

Aerial, upon due migration bound

To milder climes: or rather do ye urge

In caravan your hasty pilgrimage,

To pause at last on more aspiring heights

Than these, and utter your devotion there

With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant,

And would ye, tracking your prond lord the Sun,

Be present at his setting ? or the pomp

Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand

Poising your splendours high above the heads

Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ?

Whence, whence, ye Clonds ! this eagerness of speed l

Speak, silent ereatures. — They are gone, are fled,

Buried together in yon gloomy mass

That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright

And vacant doth the region which they throng'd

Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting

Down to the unapproachable abyss,

Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose

To vanish; fleet as days and months and years,

Fleet as the generations of mankind.

Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,

The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be.

Bnt the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,

And, see! a bright precursor to a train,

Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock

That sullenly refuses to partake

Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life

Invisible, the long procession moves

Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale

Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye

That sees them, to my soul that owns in them,

And in the bosom of the firmament

O'er which they move, wherein they are contain'd,

A type of her capacious self and all

Her restless progeny.

A humble walk

Here is my body doom'd to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced, —•
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot
Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both.
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts
Admit no bondage, and my words have wings.
Where is th' Orphean lyre, or Druid harp.

To accompany the verse ? The mountain blast

Shall be our hand of music ; he shall sweep

The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake,

And search the tibres of the caves, and they

Shall answer ; for our song is of the Clouds,

And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales —

Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn

With annual verdure, and revive the woods,

And moisten the parch'd lips of thirsty flowers—

Love them; and every idle breeze of air

Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars

Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds

Wateh also, shifting peaceably their place

Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie^

As if some Protean art the change had wrought,

In listless quiet o'er th' ethereal deep

Scatter'd, a Cyclades of various shapes

And all degrees of beanty. O ye Lightnings I

Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the Sun —

Source inexhaustible of life and joy,

And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore

In old time worshipp'd as the god of verse,

A blazing intellectual deity —

Loves his own glory in their looks; and showers

Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood

Visions with all but beatific light

Eurich'd, — too transient were they not renew'd

From age to age, and did not, while we gaze

In silent rapture, eredulous desire

Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power

To keep the treasure unimpair'd. Vain thought I

Yet why repine, ereated as we are

For joy and rest, albeit to find them only

Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ?

" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Wi' the atdd mooue in hir arme."
BaUcui of Sir Patnck Spence, Percy's JReliqua.

Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky)

The Moon re-entering her monthly round,

No faculty yet given me to espy

The dusky Shape within her arms imbound,

That thin memento of effulgence lost

Which some have named her Predecessor's ghost.

Young, like the Crescent that above me shone,
Nought I perceived within it dull or dim;
All that appear'd was suitable to One
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim;
To expectations spreading with wild growth,
And hope that kept with me her plighted troth.

I saw (ambition quickening at the view)
A silver boat lannch'd on a boundless flood;
A pearly erest, like Dian's when it threw
Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood;
But not a hint from under-ground, no sign.
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine.

Or was it Diau's self that seem'd to move
Before me? — nothing blemish'd the fair sight;
On her I look'd whom jocund Fairies love,
Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight,
And by that thinning magnifies the great,
For exaltation of her sovereign state.

And when I learn'd to mark the spectral Shape
As each new Moon obey'd the call of Time,
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ;
Such happy privilege hath life's guy Prime,
To see or not to see, as best may please
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease.

Now, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st my glance,
Thy dark Associate ever I discern;
Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance
While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern ;
'Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain.

So changes mortal Life with fleeting years;

A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring

The timely insight that can temper fears,

And from vicissitude remove its sting;

While Faith aspires to seats in that domain

Where joys are perfect, —neither wax nor wane. [182&

TO THE MOON.

(Competed by the tea-tide,—on the coast of Cumberland.)

Wanderer, that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
To human life's unsettled atmosphere;

Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake,

So might it seem, the cares of them that wake;

And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping,

Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping;

What pleasure once encompass'd those sweet names

Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,

An idolizing dreamer as of yore! —

I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore

Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend

That bid me hail thee as the Sailoe's Feiend:

So call thee for Heaven's grace through thee made known

By confidence supplied and mercy shown,

When not a twinkling star or beacon's light

Abates the perils of a stormy night;

And for less obvious benefits, that find

Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind;

Both for th' adventurer starting in life's prime;

And veteran ranging round from clime to clime,

Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,

And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains.

Th' aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams,
Empress of N ight! are gladden'd by thy beams;
A look of thine the wilderness pervades,
And penetrates the forest's inmost shades;
Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom,
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb;
Canst reach the Prisoner, — to his grated cell
Welcome, though silent and intangible! —
And lives there one, of all that come and go
On the great waters toiling to and fro,
One, who has wateh'd thee at some quiet hour
Enthroned aloft in undispnted power,
Or eross'd by vapoury streaks and clonds that move
Catehing the lustre they in part reprove;
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day,
And make the serious happier than the gay?

Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright
Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite,
To fiercer mood the frenzy-stricken brain,
Let me a compensating faith maintain ;
That there's a sensitive, a tender part
Which thou canst touch in every human heart,
For healing and composure.— Bnt, as least
And mightiest billows ever have confess'd
Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea

Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty;
So shines that countenance with especial grace
On them who urge the keel her plains to trace,
Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude,
Cut off from home and country, may have stood, —
Even till long gazing hath bedimm'd his eye,
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh, —
Touch'd by accordance of thy placid cheer,
With some internal lights to memory dear,
Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast
Tired with its daily share of Earth's unrest, —
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek;
A kindly influence whereof few will speak,
Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave
Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave;
Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea
Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free,
Paces the deck, — no star perhaps in sight,
And nothing save the moving ship's own light
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night, —
Oft with his musings does thy image blend,
In his mind's eye thy erescent horns ascend,
And thou art still, 0 Moon, that Sailor's Feiend ! [1835,

LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT.'

Beguiled into forgetfulncss of care

Dae to the day's nnfinish'd task; of pen

Or book regardless, and of that fair scene

In Nature's prodigality display'd

Before my window, — oftentimes and long

I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam

Of beanty never ceases to enrich

The common light; whose stillness charms the air,

Or seems to charm it, into like repose;

Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,

Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits,

With emblematic purity attired

In a white vest, white as her marble neck

Is, and the pillar of the throat would be,

3 This portrait was from the pencil of Mr. F. Stone. The poet speaks of it thu« in his notes, 1843: "This portrait has hung for many years in our principal sittingroom, and represents J. Quillinan, as she was when a girl. The picture, though Bomewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect; it is chiefly valuable, however, for the sentiment that pervades it."