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The elements of what will stand the shocks
Of wave and wind and time.—Upon the table
More knacks and quips there be than I am able
To cataloguize in this verse of mine :-
A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine,
But quicksilver ; that dew which the gnomes drink
When at their subterranean toil they swink,
Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who
Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo !
And call out to the cities o'er their head,
Roofs, towns, and shrines,—the dying and the
dead

[quaff
Crash through the chinks of earth—and then all
Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh.
This quicksilver no gnome has drunk—within
The walnut-bowl it lies, veined and thin,
In colour like the wake of light that stains
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon

rains The inmost shower of its white fire-the breeze Is still-blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver—for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood—I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boatA hollow screw with cogs—Henry will know The thing I mean, and laugh at me,-if so He fears nat I should do more mischief.-Next Lie bills and calculations much perplext, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint

Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.
Then comes a range of mathematical
Instruinents, for plans nautical and statical,
A heap of rosis, a green broken glass
With ink in it; a china cup that was
What it will never be again, I think,
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink
The liquor doctors rail at—and which I
Will quaff in spite of them—and when we die
We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea
And cry out,-heads or tails? where'er we be.
Near that a dusty paint-box, some old hooks,
A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books,
Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms,
To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims,
Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray
Of figures,—disentangle them who may.
Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie,
And some odd volumes of old chemistry.
Near them a most inexplicable thing,
With least in the middle—I’m conjecturing
How to make Henry understand ;—but-no,
I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo,
This secret in the pregnant womb of time,
Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme.

And here like some weird Archimage sit I,
Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery,
The self impelling steam-wheels of the mind
Which pump up oaths froin clergymen, and grind

The gentle spirit of our meek reviews Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, . Rufling the ocean of their self-content:I sit-and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them-Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound, I heed him more than them—the thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare ; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean ;-and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines ;The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast ;-the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of heaven smiles, like the eye of love On the unquiet world ;—while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the

war

Of worms? The shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise ? You are not here! The quaint witch Memory

sees

In vacant chairs your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now should be,
But are not.--I demand if ever we
Shall meet as then we met ;-and she replies,
Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes,

“I know the past alone--but summon home
My sister Hope, she speaks of all to come.”
But I, an old diviner, who know well
Every false verse of that sweet oracle,
Turned to the sad enchantress once again,
And sought a respite from my gentle pain,
In acting every passage o’er and o'er
Of our communion.—How on the sea shore
We watched the ocean and the sky together,
Under the roof of blue Italian weather ;
How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm,
And felt the transverse lightning linger warm
Upon my cheek: and how we often made
Treats for each other, where good will outweighed
The frugal luxury of our country cheer,
As it well might, were it less firm and clear
Than ours must ever be ;-and how we spun
A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun
Of this familiar life, which seems to be
But is not,-or is but quaint mockery
Of all we would believe; or sadly blame
The jarring and inexplicable frame
Of this wrong world :—and then anatomize
The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes
Were closed in distant years ;—or widely guess
The issue of the earth's great business,
When we shall be as we no longer are ;
Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war
Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not; or how
You listened to some interrupted flow

Of visionary rhyme ;-in joy and pain
Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain,
With little skill perhaps ;-or how we sought
Those deepest wells of passion or of thought
Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years,
Staining the sacred waters with our tears ;
Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed !
Or how I, wisest lady! then indued
The language of a land which now is free,
And winged with thoughts of truth and majesty,
Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud,
And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud,
“My name is Legion !”—that majestic tongue
Which Calderon over the desert flung
Of ages and of nations; and which found
An echo in our hearts, and with the sound
Startled oblivion ;-thou wert then to me
As is a nurse- -when inarticulately
A child would talk as its grown parents do.
If living winds the rapid clouds pursue,
If hawks chase doves through the aerial way,
Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their

prey,
Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast
Out of the forest of the pathless past
These recollected pleasures ?

You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore VOL. III.

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