IV. THE SINGER.

"That was the thrush's last good-night," I thought, And heard the soft descent of summer rain

In the drooped garden leaves; but hush! again
The perfect iterance,—freer than unsought
Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,
Deeper than coilèd waters laid a-dream
Below mossed ledges of a shadowy stream,
And faultless as blown roses in June days.
Full-throated singer! art thou thus anew
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone
The enriched silence drops for thy delight

More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?
Now cease the last faint western streak is gone,

Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.

V. A SUMMER MOON.

Queen-moon of this enchanted summer night,
One virgin slave companioning thee,—I lie
Vacant to thy possession as this sky

Conquered and calmed by thy rejoicing might ;

Swim down through my heart's deep, thou dewy

bright

Wanderer of heaven, till thought must faint and die,
And I am made all thine inseparably,

Resolved into the dream of thy delight.
Ah no! the place is common for her feet,
Not here, not here,-beyond the amber mist,
And breadths of dusky pine, and shining lawn,
And unstirred lake, and gleaming belts of wheat,
She comes upon her Latmos, and has kissed

The sidelong face of blind Endymion.

VI. A PEACH.

If any sense in mortal dust remains

When mine has been refined from flower to flower
Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower
And delicate winy dews, and gained the gains
Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing
Through half a summer day, for love bestow,
Then in some warm old garden let me grow
To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing
As this. Upon a southward-facing wall

I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed

And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden

grey:

Keep the wasps from me! but before I fall

Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red

Girl lips, O let me richly swoon away!

VII. EARLY AUTUMN.'

If while I sit flatter'd by this warm sun
Death came to me, and kissed my mouth and brow,
And eyelids which the warm light hovers through,
I should not count it strange. Being half won
By hours that with a tender sadness run,

Who would not softly lean to lips which woo

In the Earth's grave speech? Nor could it aught

undo

Of Nature's calm observances begun

Still to be here the idle autumn day.

Pale leaves would circle down, and lie unstirr'd

Where'er they fell; the tired wind hither call
Her gentle fellows; shining beetles stray
Up their green courts; and only yon shy bird
A little bolder grow ere evenfall.

VIII. LATER AUTUMN.

This is the year's despair: some wind last night
Utter'd too soon the irrevocable word,

And the leaves heard it, and the low clouds heard;

So a wan morning dawned of sterile light;

Flowers drooped, or showed a startled face and

white;

The cattle cowered, and one disconsolate bird

Chirped a weak note; last came this mist and

blurred

The hills, and fed upon the fields like blight.
Ah, why so swift despair! There yet will be
Warm noons, the honey'd leavings of the year,
Hours of rich musing, ripest autumn's core,
And late-heaped fruit, and falling hedge-berry,
Blossoms in cottage crofts, and yet, once more,
A song, not less than June's, fervent and clear.