Maider, that with sullen brow

Sitst behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; But no sound like simple truth,

But no true love in his eye.

O give me, from this heartless scene releas’d,
To hear our old musician, blind and gray,
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I

kist)
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
The while I dance amid the tedded hay
With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in

light.
Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, oh let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at

ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
Breathes in his flute sad airs, 50 wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

Loathing thy pollated lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe: With a musing melancholy

Inly arm’d, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, oh Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Is the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms :

But oh, dear Anne! when midnight-wind

careers,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed
Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm

crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,
Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The Things of Nature utter; birds or trees
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass, mid the heath-plant

waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, l'pward to the day-star spring And embathe in heavenly light.

WRITTEN

IN

GERMANY

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT

HOME-SICK.
ROOM.
Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
throng,

Through city-crowds must push his way, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, To stroll alone through fields and wooda, lo intricacies of laborious song.

And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is, in summer-bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

I send with deep regards of heart and 'head,
Sweet maid, for friendship form’d! this

work to thee:
And thou, the while thou canst not choose

but shed A tear for FALCONER, wilt remember me!

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

BO

WRITTEN

IN

GERMANY

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY This feel I hourly more and more:

NATURAL.
There's healing only in thy wings,
Thou Breeze that playst on Albion's shore!

If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
TO A LADY.

But thoughts like these are idle things,
WITH PALCONER'S SHIPWRECK.

And I stay here.
Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, But in my sleep to you I fly:
In arched groves, the youthful poet's I'm always with you in my sleep;

choice;

The world is all one's own. Nor while half - list'ning, 'mid delicious But then one wakes, and where am I?

dreams,

All, all alone. To harp and song from lady's hand and

voice;

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:

So I love to wake ere break of day: Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood For though my sleep be gone, On cliff, or cataract, in alpine dell;

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed And still dreams on.

strew'd, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

roar

THE HAPPY HUSBAND. Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he

sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee Pity, hark!

And dedicated name, I hear Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's A promise and a mystery,

wings,
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pledge of more than passing life,
Bark !

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! Cling to the shrowds!—In vain! The breakers A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert, Death shrieks! With two alone of all his That gladness half requests to weep!

clan,

Nor bless I not the keener sense
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, And unalarming turbulence
No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying; Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial But born beneath Love's brooding wing,

strains,

And into tenderness soon dying, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? Wheel out their giddy moment, then The elevating thought of suffer'd pains, Resign the soul to love again. Which gentle hearts shall mourn; . but

chief, the name A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow or Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, And leave their sweeter understrain Which Love makes Substance! Hence to Its own sweet self-a love of Thee

That seems, yet cannot greater be! O dear as long as life and memory last!

Η Υ Μ Ν

From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks
BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. For ever shattered and the same for ever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have Your strength, your speed, your fury, and
their sources on the foot of Mount-Blanc, five
conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and

your joy,
within a few paces of the Glaciers the Gentiana Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
Major grows' in immense numbers, with its And who commanded (and the silence came),
flowers of loveliest blue.

Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?

1
Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning-
Star

Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the Mountain's
In his steep course ? So long he seems to

brow
pause

Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! Torrents, methinks, that heard a nighty
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base

Voice,
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form! And stopp'd at once amid their maddest
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pincs,

plunge!
How silently! Around thee and above Motionless Torrents! silent Cataracts!
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, Who made you glorious as the Gates of
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it,

Hleaven
As with a wedge! But when I look again, Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,

Sun
Thy habitation from eternity!

Cloath you with rainbows? Who, with
O dread and silent Mount! I gaz'd upon thee,

living flowers Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your Didst vanish from my thought: entranc'd

feet? in prayer

GOD! let the Torrents, like a shout of Nations
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Answer! and let the Ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow - streams with glad-

some voice!
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

like sounds! Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with And they too have a voice, yon piles of my thought,

snow, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Till the dilating sonl, enrapt, transfus'd, Into the mighty vision passing-there As in her natural form, swellid vast to Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal heaven!

frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's

nest! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountainThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

storm! Mute thanks and secret extacy! Awake, Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart,

clouds! awake!

Ye signs and wonders of the element! Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn. Utter forth God, and fill the hills with

praise ! Thon first and chief, sole Sovran of the

Vale!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy skyO struggling with the Darkness all the night,

po'nting peaks, And visited all night by troops of stars, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, Orwhen they climb the sky or when they sink : Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,

serene, Thyself Earth's ROSY STAR, and of the dawn Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breastCo-herald! wake, O wake, and utter praise! Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low Who fill'd thy Countenance with rosy light? In adoration, upward from thy base Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffus’d with

tears,

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! To rise before me-Rise, o ever rise, Who call'd you forth from night and utter Rise like a cloud of Incense, from the Earth!

death,

Thou hingly Spirit throned among the hillo, upon thee

THE HARTZ-FOREST.

saw

Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM

Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent Sky, ON THE 1st OF FEBBUARY, 1796. And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises Sweet Flower! that peeping from thy God.

russet stem Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort This dark, freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth

chattering Month

Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gaz'd L 1 N E S

With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower! WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBING BRODE, IN These are but Hatteries of the faithless year.

Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,

Ev'n now the keen North-East is on its way. I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee

To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, Nipp'd by Consumption’mid untimely charms? A surging scene, and only limited

Or to Bristowa's Bard, the wonderous boy! By the blue distance. Heavily my way An Amar which Earth scarce seem'd to Downward I dragg'd through fir- groves

own, evermore,

Blooming 'mid poverty's drear wintry waste, Where bright green moss heaves in sepul- Till Disappointment came and pelting Wrong

chral fornis

Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope,

heard,

Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening The sweet bird's song became an hollow

bud? sound;

Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,

And mock my boding! Dim similitudes Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct Weaving in inoral strains, I've stolen one From many a note of many a waterfall,

hour And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet From anxious SELF, Life's cruel Task-Master!

stones

And the warm wooings of this sunny day The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell

Tremble along my frame and harmonize Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Th' attemper'd organ, that even saddest Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

thoughts In low and languid mood : for I had found Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive

tunes Their finer influence from the life within:

Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.
Fair cyphers of vague import, where the eye
Traces no spot, in which the heart may read
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name

THE EOLIAN HARP.
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined o dear, dear England ! how my longing eye Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is Turned westward , shaping in the steady To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown

clouds

With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broadThy sands and high white cliffs! My native

leav'd Myrtle, Land!

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) Filled with the thought of thee this heart And watch the clouds, that late were rich was proud,

with light, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all Slow sad'ning round, and mark the star of eve

the view

Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Floated away, like a departing dream,

Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

so hush'd! Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, The stilly murmur of the distant Sea With basty judgment or injurious doubt, Tells us of Silence. And that simplest Late. That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel Placed length-ways in the clasping casement. That God is every where! the God who

hark ! framed

How by the desultory breeze caressid, Mankind to be one mighty Family,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. Himself our Father, and the world our Home. It pour's such sweet upbraidings, as must

needs