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With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm; It cannot be that aught will work him harm." These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might :
Again I shake your hand,-friend Charles, good night.
CHATTERTON! how very sad thy
Dear child of sorrow-son of misery!
How soon the film of death obscured
Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars
Of highest heaven: to thy rolling spheres Thou sweetest singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
YRON! how sweetly sad thy melody!
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow. Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe
PENSER! a jealous honourer of thine,1
But, Elfin-poet! 'tis impossible
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill,
I am enabled by the kindness of Mr. W. A. Longmore, nephew of Mr. J. W. Reynolds, to give an exact transcript of this sonnet as written and given to his mother, by the poet, at his father's house in Little Britain. The poem is dated, in Mrs. Longmore's hand, Feb. 5th, 1818, but it seems to me impossible that it can have been other than an early production and of the especially Spenserian time.
SPENSER! a jealous honour (sic) of thine
A Forester deep in thy midmost Trees
Did last eve ask my promise to refine
Some English that might strive thine ear to please
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
Fire wing'd and make a morning in his mirth
It is impossible to escape from toil
O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Fire-wing'd, and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to 'scape from toil
O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting:
The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming:
Be with me in the summer days, and I
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.
ANY the wonders I this day have seen :
That fill'd the eyes of Morn ;-the laurell'd peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;→ The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears
Must think on what will be, and what has been.
And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.
ys from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern
On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,
O' the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air On holy message sent-What pleasure's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ?
WRITTEN ON A SUMMER EVENING.'
HE church bells toll'd a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound
This is a rare instance of any anti-religious feeling or expression, notwithstanding the poet's associations with the free thought of the