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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 ‐
<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; ‐ 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 ‐
<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 ‐ aye, now our King, ‐ 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 ‐
<l>Capt. Yes ‐ '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 ‐ 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 ‐ 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 . . .
