« ÎnapoiContinuă »
For a stretched hand, ever the same to me, And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.
Adieu, adieu :-) say no more.—God speed you ! Remember what we all expect, who read you.
Hampstead, April, 1816.
TO THOMAS MOORE.
Ωδε καλον βομβευντι ποτι σμανεσσι μελισσαι
ται δ' επι δενδρω Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι:
βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
DEAR Tom, who enjoying your brooks and your
bowers, Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers, A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing, Yet armed with an exquisite point too for sting
I owe you a letter, and having this time
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
I told you, you know, you should have a detail
(By the bye, this comparison, well understood, Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
For a man who once kept them in London, they say, Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
But at present, for reasons I'll give when we meet, I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat; And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while, On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile? On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded
glades, Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades, With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees The hills up above him with roofs in the trees? Now too, while the season,-half summer, half
spring, Brown elms and green oaks,--makes one loiter and
sing; And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon, And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
And little white clouds lie about in the sun,
Even now while I write, I'm half stretched on the
ground With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me
round, Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and
wild flowers, While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers. People talk of “ poor insects,” (although, by the way, Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they); But lord, what a set of delicious retreats The epicures live in,-shades, colours, and sweets ! The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em, Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding
through 'em ; And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em, What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.