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In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high

He who stood visible to Mirza's eve,
Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening
spread!

The visionary Arches are not there,
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining
Seas;

Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

IX.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power

could stay

Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;

Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,

Ere they were lost within the shady wood; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood Forever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even,

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given

To one brief moment caught from fleeting time

The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

X.

"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings

Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?

"Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings."

A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all that Art

Divine of words quickening insensate things.

From the submissive necks of guiltless

men

Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils:

Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils

Of mortal sympathy: what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields

To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?

XI.

AERIAL ROCK-whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight;

When I step forth to hail the morning light;

Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell— how

Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow?
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?
-By planting on thy naked head the crest
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme!
That doth presume no more than to supply
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.
Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a
gleam

Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.

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Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep

In rich reward all suffering; Balm that

tames

All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims

Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;

And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.

Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew. tree bough,

And dimly-gleaming Nest, a hollow crown

Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, alone,

I surely not a man ungently made,

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?

Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,

Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

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Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow:
I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing,
sighed

For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous
pride!

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TO THE POET, JOHN DYER.

BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius
made

That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy
childhood strayed,

Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep
embayed,

With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;"

Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled

For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade

Of cold neglect she leaves thy head un graced,

Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,

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ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, "A Book was writ of iate called Tetrachordon.""

A Book came forth of late, called PETER BELL;

Not negligent the style ;-the matter?good

As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;

But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)

Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,

Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,

Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice,

In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen.

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XX.

TO S. H.

EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led,

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread ;

My nerves from no such murmur shrink,tho' near,

Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades darken the mountain's head.

Even She who toils to spin our vital thread
To household virtues.
Might smile on work, O`Lady, once so dear
Venerable Art,

Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect

Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,
Trusting to crowded factory and mart
And proud discoveries of the intellect,
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.

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gay,

These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of love, look down upon the place; Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day! Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display

Even for such promise:-serious is her face, Modest her mien; and she whose thoughts keep pace

With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid
appear;

No disproportion in her soul, no strife;
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be
clear

From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

XXIV.

Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love
dies

With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

That breathies on earth the air of paradise.

XXV.

FROM THE SAME.

II.

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine,

And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold; Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and
weak)

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes; nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time
depend.

Ideal Form, the universal mould.

'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best,

Even here below, but more in heaven above.

XXVI.

FROM THE SAME. ΤΟ THE SUPREME
BEING.
II

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed

If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. That of its native self can nothing feed:

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Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."

Those steps I clomb; the mists before me
gave

Smooth way: and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to
have

Pleasing remembrance of a thought fore-
gone;

A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

XXIX.

NOVEMBER, 1836.

II.

EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified

Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy

mien

When thou, dear Sister! wert become
Death's Bride".

No trace of pain or languor could abide
That change :- age on thy brow was
smoothed-thy cold

Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold
A loveliness to living youth denied.
Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline,
The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly
burn;
[thine,
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of
The bright assurance, visibly return:
And let my spirit in that power divine
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to

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WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship
must go?

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?-Neither friend
nor foe

She cares for; let her travel where she may
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and
there

Crossing the waters) doubt, and something
dark,

The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

seen

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

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