Lo! to the vault

Of paved heaven, With sorrow fraught,

My notes are driven; They strike the ear of Night,

Make weep the eyes of Day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,

With howling woe After night I do crowd

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the east

From whence comforts have increased;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

SONG.

FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry Year
Smiles on my head, and mounts his flaming car;
Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade,
And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are winged, while o'er the dewy lawn
I meet my maiden risen like the morn.

O bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;

O bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!

Like as an angel glittering in the sky

In times of innocence and holy joy;

The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song
To hear the music of an angel's tongue.

So, when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear;
So, when we walk, nothing impure comes near
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat;
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

But, that sweet village where my black-eyed maid
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

SONG.

WHEN early Morn walks forth in sober grey,
Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away.
When Evening sits beneath her dusky bower,
And gently sighs away the silent hour,
The village bell alarms, away I go,

And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

To that sweet village where my black-eyed maid
Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade

I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go

Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.

Oft, when the Summer sleeps among the trees,
Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,
I walk the village round; if at her side
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,
That made my love so high, and me so low.

O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear
And throw all pity on the burning air!
I'd curse bright fortune for my mixèd lot,
And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot.

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER On Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair, ✓

Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few!

AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

GOLDEN Apollo, that through heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth his beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,

And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund Hours in thy train

Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;

And, when thou yield'st to Night thy wide domain, Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.

For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay

With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray (For Ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse, And love of Folly needs none other's curse) Midas the praise hath gained of lengthened ears, For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse To sit in council with his modern peers,

And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse.

And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,

And through heaven's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high

Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go

Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly :

If thou arrivest at the sandy shore

Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell;
Such is sweet eloquence, that does dispel
Envy and Hate, that thirst for human gore ;
And cause in sweet society to dwell

Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell.

O Mercury, assist my labouring sense

That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns the towery fence
Of Alpine hills round his high aëry,
And searches through the corners of the sky,
Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly;

Then, bosomed in an amber cloud, around
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.

And thou, O warrior-maid invincible,

Armed with the terrors of almighty Jove,

Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,

Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,

In solemn gloom of branches interwove?

Or bear'st thy ægis o'er the burning field,

Where like the sea the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld

The weary wanderer through the desert rove?
Or does the afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move?