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To some blind spell: seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs, Fond converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,— That 'tis their sighing, wailing, as they go Into oblivion-that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp.
TO G. A. W.
YMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
In what diviner moments of the day
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ?
And so remain, because thou listenest:
AD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME
S late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;-when
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd ; But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.
SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell.
Nature's observatory-whence the dell,
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.1
H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far-far away to leave
1 I believe this to be Keats's first published verse, it appeared in the "Examiner," 1816.
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bierTill their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a delicious tear,
When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME
A LAUREL CROWN.
RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,-now from
I mount for ever-not an atom less
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Or "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!
WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.
HAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait? Think you he nought but prison-walls did see, Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key? Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate! In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air: To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
ROOD Kosciusko! thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious
Of the wide spheres-an everlasting tone.
Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing