Of thought-entangled descant; as to nerves- We'll make our friendly philosophic revel Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew :"To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." TO MARY, ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST. I. How, my dear Mary, are you critic-bitten, **Iuepos, from which the river Himera was named, is with some slight shade of difference, a synonyme of Love What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Fill its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-winged fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift sun went his way And that is dead.-O, let me not believe That any thing of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow : A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; |