See (and scorn all duller
Taste) how heav'n loves colour;

How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;-
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,

And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:
See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers,

And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of the flowers.

Uselessness divinest,

Of a use the finest,

Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Travellers, weary eyed,
Bless us, far and wide;

Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce :
Not a poor town window

Loves its sickliest planting,

But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Sagest yet the uses,

Mix'd with our sweet juices,

Whether man, or May-fly, profit of the balm;

As fair fingers heal'd

Knights from the olden field,

We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
Ev'n the terror, poison,

Hath its plea for blooming:

Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.

And oh! our sweet soul-taker,

That thief, the honey-maker,

What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,

Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men
The butterflies come aping

Those fine thieves of ours,

And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.

See those tops, how beauteous!

What fair service duteous

Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?

Elfin court 'twould seem;

And taught, perchance, that dream.

Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine. To expound such wonder

Human speech avails not;

Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.

Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures,

Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ;
Then think in what bright show'rs

We thicken fields and bow'rs,

And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May : Think of the mossy forests

By the bee-birds haunted,

And all those Amazonian plains, lone iying as enchanted.

Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;

Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring:
The lusty bee knows well

The news, and comes pell-mell,

And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen

Of planet-pressing ocean,

We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion.

Tears of Phoebus,-missings

Of Cytherea's kissings,

Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;

Drooping grace unfurls

Still Hyacinthus' curls,

And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:

Thy red lip, Adonis,

Still is wet with morning;

And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning.

Oh! true things are fables,

Fit for sagest tables,

And the flow'rs are true things,-yet no fables they;

Fables were not more

Bright, nor loved of yore,

Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway:

Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never ;-

Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,-marvels sweet for ever.

Who shall say, that flowers

Dress not heaven's own bowers?

Who its love, without us, can fancy,

Who shall even dare

or sweet floor?

To say, we sprang not there,

And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more?

Oh! pray believe that angels

From those blue dominions,

Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions.

TO A CHILD DURING 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 pillow'd meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Öf fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,-
These, these are things that may
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones
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.

demand

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.

To say, "He has departed,"-

"His voice,”—“ his face,"—" is gone;" 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 fix'd, and sleeping!

This silence too the while

:

Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile :-
Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of cherubim,
Who say, "We've finish'd here."

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

KING Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court:
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom

he sigh'd:

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with

their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than

there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;

She thought, The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be―
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me :
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;

He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild :
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from
where he sat ;

66

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT.

TO FISH.

You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt water everlastingly,

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,-
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste;

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles ?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?

How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

A FISH ANSWERS.

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body, and most ridiculous pace
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!