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Then, loveliest! keep me free,

From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour; Let none profane my Holy See of love,

Or with a rude hand break

The sacramental cake:

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not-may my eyes close,

Love! on their lost repose.

SONNETS.

I.

OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the golden

west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest The silver clouds, far, far away to leave All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve From little cares; to find, with easy quest, A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest, And there into delight my soul deceive. There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate

on Sydney's bier

Till their stern forms before my mind arise. Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

1816.

II.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL

CROWN.

FRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear From my glad bosom

now from gloominess

I mount forever not an atom less

---

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.

No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call

down

My will from its high purpose? "Stand,"

Or "Go?"

Who say,

This mighty moment I would frown On abject Cæsars - not the stoutest band Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

III.

AFTER dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle south, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains,

Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us

leaves

as, of

Budding, fruit ripening in stillness, au

tumn suns

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves,

Sweet Sappho's cheek, a sleeping infant's

breath,

-

The gradual sand that through an hour-glass

runs,

A woodland rivulet,

-a Poet's death.

Jan. 1817.

IV.

66

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF THE FLOWRE AND THE LEFE."

THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honeyed lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
Oh! what a power has white simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory,
Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

Feb. 1817.

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