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WHEN I have fears that I may cease | When I behold, upon the night's

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breath,

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EVER let the fancy roam;

And so live ever,- or else swoon to Pleasure never is at home; death.

ODE ON THE POETS.

BARDS of passion and of mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wonder-

ous

And the parle of voices thunderous;

At a touch sweet pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let wingèd fancy wander
Through the thought still spread be-
yond her;

Open wide the mind's cage-door,—
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet fancy! let her loose!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the spring
Fades as does its blossoming.
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,

Cloys with tasting. What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the cakèd snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

[her. send

To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,
Fancy, high-commissioned:
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped autumn's wealth;
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it,-thou shalt hear

Distant harvest-carols clear,-
Rustle of the reaped corn;

Sweet birds antheming the morn;
And, in the same moment, hark!
'Tis the early April lark,-
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath
burst;

Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its cellèd sleep;
And the snake, all winter-thin,
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.

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Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, [fays; Clustered around by all her starry But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruittree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy. wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

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WHERE IS THY FAVORED HAUNT?

WHERE is thy favored haunt, eter- | No sounds of worldly toil ascending

nal voice,

The region of thy choice,

there,

Mar the full burst of prayer;

Where undisturbed by sin and earth, Lone Nature feels that she may free

ly breathe,

And round us and beneath

'Tis on the mountain's summit dark Are heard her sacred tones: the fit

the soul

Owns thy entire control?

and high,

When storms are hurrying by:

ful sweep

Of winds across the steep,

'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of Through withered bents - romantic

the earth,

Where torrents have their birth.

note and clear, Meet for a hermit's ear,-·

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