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<V 1><L 0><E 1817><R 1><P 27> Imitation of Spenser Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill; Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins, and golden scales light Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, And oar'd himself along with majesty; Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle That in that fairest lake had placed been, I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen For . . .
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<page.break n=P331> <l>As when, upon a tranced summer-night, <l>Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods, <l>Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, <l>Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, <l>Save from one gradual solitary gust <l>Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, <l>As if the ebbing air had but one wave; <l>So came these words and went; the while in tears <l>She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, <l>Just where her falling hair might be outspread, <l>A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. <l>One moon, with alteration slow, had shed <l>Her silver seasons four upon the night, <l>And still these two were postured motionless, <l>Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern; <page.break n=P332> <l>The frozen God still couchant on the earth, <l>And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet: <l>Until at length old Saturn lifted up <l>His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, <l>And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, <l>And that fair kneeling Goddess: and . . .
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<div1 id=VN001 n='1817.'> <head>Imitation of Spenser</head> <div2 id=VN00101> <page.break n=P27> <l>Now Morning from her orient chamber came, <l>And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill; <l>Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, <l>Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; <l>Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill, <l>And after parting beds of simple flowers, <l>By many streams a little lake did fill, <l>Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, <l>And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. <l>There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright <l>Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below; <l>Whose silken fins, and golden scales light <l>Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow <l>There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, <l>And oar'd himself along with majesty; <l>Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show <l>Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, <l>And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. <l>Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle <l>That in that faire . . .
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<l>l 0><e tk><r 1> Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition <l>The church bells toll a melancholy round, <l>Calling the people to some other prayers, <l>Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, <l>More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. <l>Surely the mind of man is closely bound <l>In some black spell; seeing that each one tears <l>Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, <l>And converse high of those with glory crown'd. <l>Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp &dash; <l>A chill as from a tomb, did I not know <l>That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; <l>That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go <l>Into oblivion; &dash; that fresh flowers will grow, <l>And many glories of immortal stamp. <div1 id=VN043 n='1817.'> <head>On the Grasshopper and Cricket</head> <l>The poetry of earth is never dead <l>When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, <l>And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run <l>From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; <l>That is the Grass . . .
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<div1 id=VN065 n='1818.'> <head>Endymion: A Poetic Romance BOOK III</head> <div2 id=VN06501> <l>There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men <l>With most prevailing tinsel who unpen <l>Their baaing vanities, to browse away <l>There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men <l>With most prevailing tinsel who unpen <l>Their baaing vanities, to browse away <l>The comfortable green and juicy hay <l>From human pastures; or, O torturing fact! <l>Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd <l>Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe <l>Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge <l>Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight <l>Able to face an owl's, they still are dight <l>By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, <l>And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, <l>Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount <l>To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, <l>Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones &dash; <l>Amid the fierce intoxicating tones <l>Of trumpets, sh . . .
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<div1 id=VN067 n='FC.'> <head>In Drear Nighted December</head> <div2 id=VN06701> <page.break n=P221> <l>In a drear-nighted December, <l>Too happy, happy tree, <l>Thy branches ne'er remember <l>Their green felicity <l>The north cannot undo them, <l>With a sleety whistle through them; <l>Nor frozen thawings glue them <l>From budding at the prime. <l>In a drear-nighted December, <l>Too happy, happy brook, <l>Thy bubblings ne'er remember <l>Apollo's summer look; <l>But with a sweet forgetting, <l>They stay their crystal fretting, <l>Never, never petting <l>About the frozen time. <l>Ah! would 'twere so with many <l>A gentle girl and boy! <l>But were there ever any <l>Writh'd not at passed joy? <l>To know the change and feel it, <l>When there is none to heal it, <l>Nor numbed sense to steel it, <l>Was never said in rhyme. <div1 id=VN068 n='D.'> <head>Apollo to the Graces</head> <div2 id=VN06801> <page.break n=P222> <l>Apol. Which of the fairest three <l>Apol. Today will ride with me? <l>Apo . . .
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<div1 id=VN118 n='CB.'> <head>Where's the Poet? Show him! show him</head> <l>Where's the Poet? Show him! show him, <l>Muses nine! that I may know him! <l>'Tis the man who with a man <l>Is an equal, be he king, <l>Or poorest of the beggar-clan, <l>Or any other wondrous thing <l>A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato; <l>'Tis the man who with a bird, <l>Wren or eagle, finds his way to <l>All its instincts; he hath heard <l>The lion's roaring, and can tell <l>What his horny throat expresseth, <l>And to him the tiger's yell <l>Comes articulate and presseth <l>On his ear like mother-tongue; . . . <div1 id=VN119 n='1820.'> <head>Fancy</head> <l>Ever let the Fancy roam, <l>Pleasure never is at home <page.break n=P291> <l>At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, <l>Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; <l>Then let winged Fancy wander <l>Through the thought still spread beyond her <l>Open wide the mind's cage-door, <l>She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. <l>O sweet Fancy! let her loose; <l>Summer's joy . . .
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<div1 id=VN152 n='FC.'> <head>Otho the Great: A Tragedy in Five Acts Act II SC ENE II</head> <div2 id=VN15201> <l>Erm. Where! Where! Where shall I find a messenger? <l>Erm. A trusty soul? A good man in the camp? <l>Erm. Shall I go myself? Monstrous wickedness! <l>Erm. O cursed Conrad! devilish Auranthe! <l>Erm. Here is proof palpable as the bright sun! <l>Erm. O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears! <l>Capt. Fair prisoner, hear you those joyous shouts? <l>Capt. The King &dash; aye, now our King, &dash; but still your slave, <l>Capt. Young Gersa, from a short captivity <l>Capt. Has just return'd. He bids me say, bright dame, <l>Capt. That even the homage of his ranged chiefs <l>Capt. Cures not his hot impatience to behold <l>Capt. Such beauty once again. What ails you, lady? <l>Erm. Say, is not that a German, yonder? There! <l>Capt. Methinks by his stout bearing he should be &dash; <l>Capt. Yes &dash; 'tis one Albert; a brave German knight, <l>Capt. And much in the Emperor . . .
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<div1 id=VN164 n='1819.'> <head>Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes</h ead> <div2 id=VN16401> <l>Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, <l>Nibble their toasts and cool their tea with sighs; <l>Or else forget the purpose of the night, <l>Forget their tea, forget their appetite. <l>See, with cross'd arms they sit &dash; ah! hapless crew, <l>The fire is going out and no one rings <l>For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. <page.break n=P476> <l>A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die <l>Circled by a humane society? <l>No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon, <l>Inverts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon <l>The little struggler, sav'd from perils dark, <l>Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark. <l>Romeo! Arise! take snuffers by the handle, <l>There's a large cauliflower in each candle. <l>A winding sheet &dash; Ah, me! I must away <l>To No. 7, just beyond the Circus gay. <l>" Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well; <l>Where may your tailor live? " " I m . . .