Undone and fired, could rake the midnight ear, Compared with that vast dumbness nature keeps Throughout her starry deeps,
Most old, and mild, and awful, and unbroken, Which tells a tale of peace beyond whate'er was spoken.
AIR-The Deil cam fiddling through the town.
Он, one that I know is a knavish lass,
Though she looks so sweet and simple,
Her eyes there are none can safely pass,
And it's wrong to trust her dimple.
So taking the jade was by Nature made,
So finish'd in all fine thieving,
She'll e'en look away what you wanted to say,
And smile you out of your grieving.
To see her, for instance, go down a dance,
You'd think you sat securely,
Although she forewarns by no bold advance,
And by nothing done over demurely :
But lord! she goes with so blithe a repose,
And comes so shapely about you,
That ere you're aware, with a glance and an air
She whisks your heart from out you.
ON THE 28TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1817.
Ir is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad ;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show
The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards in their sunniest robes
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.
And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest
In leafy fields, quiet, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London with its wealth of books?
It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one-
Shakespeare; nor yet, oh no-that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
No; but it is, that on this very day, e And upon Shakespeare's stream, a little lower, Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,38 Was born the lass that I love more and more; A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store, Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core; An eye for art: a nature, that of yore Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore, When in the golden age one tune they bore; Marian,-who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
19 I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,-
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too; My light, where'er I go, My bird, when prison-bound, My hand in hand companion,-no, My prayers shall hold thee round.
“He has departed "
"His voice "
To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on ; Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping!
This silence too the while-
It's very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Seraphim,
AH little ranting Johnny,
Forever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining
As if their veins they'd wine in;
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipp'd completeness;-
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio,
-Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,-
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori,
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