THE LATMIAN FOREST. UPON the sides of Latmos was outspread A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed, So plenteously all weed-hidden roots Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits.

And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,

Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep

A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,

Never again saw he the happy pens

Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. Among the shepherds 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did

sever

From the white flock, but passed unworried

By any wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay, great his gains

Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,

Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,

And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly

To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell

Of tuft and slanting branches: who could tell

The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edged round with dark tree-tops? through which a dove

Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue.

Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy fantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing

sun;

The lark was lost in him; cold springs had

run

To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the

mass

Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold,

To fell this sun-rise, and its glories old..

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happinessThat thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows number. less,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth !

O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the
brim,

And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Clustered around by all her starry
Fays;

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the
breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each

She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still
stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried
deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep?

maw;

Or by mysterious enticement draw

Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,

And gather up all fancifullest shells,
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their outpeep-
ing;

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak-apples and fir-cones
brown,-

By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

O hearkener to the loud-clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers,
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars, routing tender

Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,

That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth,

Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;

A firmament reflected in a sea;

An element filling the space between;
An unknown-but no more: we humbly

screen

With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,

And giving out a shout most heaven-rend-
ing,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Pæan,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!

MOONLIGHT.

ETERNE Apollo! that thy sister fair
Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest.
When thy gold breath is misting in the
west,

She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she sits most meek and most

alone;

As if she had not pomp subservient;
As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent
Towards her with the muses in thine

heart;

As if the ministering stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages.

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest

trees

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din

The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,

Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:

Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent the nested

wren

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.-The mighty deeps,

The monstrous sea is thine-the myriad sea!

O Moon! far spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load.

THE POET'S HOPES.

WHAT though I leave this dull and earthly mould;

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold With after-times. The patriot shall feel My stern alarum, and unsheathe his steel, Or in the senate thunder out my numbers, To startle princes from their easy slumbers. The sage will mingle with each moral theme

My happy thoughts sententious; he will

teem

With lofty periods when my verses fire

him.

And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him,

Lays have I left, of such a dear delight, That maids will sing them on their bridalnight.

Gay villagers, upon a morn in May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,

And formed a snowy circle on the grass, And placed in midst of all that lovely lass, Who chosen is their queen-with her fine head

Crowned with flowers, purple, white, and red:

For there the lily and the musk-rose, sighing,

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying; Between her breasts that never yet felt

trouble,

A bunch of violets full blown and double
Serenely sleep: she from a casket takes
A little book,--and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart, -with stifled
cries,

And rubbing of white hands and sparkling

eyes,

For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears

One that I fostered in my youthful years. The pearls that on each glistening circlet sleep

Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet

rest

Shall the dear babe upon its mother's breast

Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view : Swiftly I pinions,

mount upon wide-spreading

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions;

Full joy I feel while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters
And warm thy sons!-
[fair,

ENGLAND.

HAPPY is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances
blent;

Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment

For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling

meant.

Happy is England, sweet her artless daugh

ters;

Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:

Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,

And float with them about the summer

waters.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO
CHAPMAN'S " 'HOMER."

MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms

seen;

Round many western islands have I been, Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold;

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien.