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And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who sce us, fear us ; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell A ped the true Hebrew miracle ? Some few vapors thou mayst raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Or his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so soy'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Ruses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Wou do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any title of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Catherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; Where, though I, by sour physician Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite

TO T. L. H.


Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'T was but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness

MODEL of thy parent deas Serious infant worth a fear, In thy unfaltering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood ;

Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
Convict unconscious, culprit-child!
Gates that close with iron roar
Have been to thee thy nursery-door ;
Chains that clink in cheerless cells
Have been thy rattles and thy bells ;
Walls contrived for giant sin
Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
Her discordant house hath built,
And fill'd it with her monstrous brood-
Sights, by thee not understood -
Sights of fear, and of distress,
That pass a harmless infant's guess !

But the clouds, that overcast
Thy young morning, may not last.
Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour,
That yields thee up to Nature's power.
Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
She shall recompense with cost
For every lesson thou hast lost.
Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,'
Thou shalt take thy airy fill
Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing
For thy delight each May morning.
'Mid new-yearn'd lambkins thou shalt play,
Hardly less a lamb than they.
Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
Shall be the horizon skirting round.
And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
To make amends for wintry hours,
The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
Shall from thy tender brow efface
Each vestige of untimely care,
That sour restraint had graven there;
And on thy every look impress
A more excelling childishness.
So shall be thy days beguiled,
THORNTON Hunt, my favorite child.

It was in Adullam's cave,
Nigh which no water they could have,
Nor spring, nor running brook was near
To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
Then David, king of Israel,
Straight bethought him of a well,
Which stood beside the city gate,
At Bethlehem; where, before his state
Of kingly dignity, he had
Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
But now his fierce Philistine foe
Encamp'd before it he does know.
Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
Those three bold captains he addrest,
And wish'd that one to him would bring
Some water from his native spring.
His valiant captains instantly
To execute his will did fly.
The mighty Three the ranks broke through
Of armed foes, and water drew
For David, their beloved king,
At his own sweet native spring.
Back through their armed foes they haste
With the hard-earn'd treasure gộaced.
But when the good king David found
What they had done, he on the ground
The water pour’d. “Because,” said he,
“That it was at the jeopardy
of your three lives this thing ye did,
That I should drink it, God forbid."



FROM THE GERMAN. The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,

And ever the forest maketh a moan : Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching, Thus by herself she singelh alone,

Weeping right plenteously. "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss : To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,

Living right lovingly."

ONCE on a charger there was laid,
And brought before a royal maid,
As price of attitude and grace,
A guiltless head, a holy face.

It was on Herod's natal day,
Who o'er Judea's land held sway.
He married his own brother s wife,
Wicked Herodias. She the life
Of John the Baptist long had sought,
Because he openly had taught
That she a life unlawful led,
Having her husband's brother wed.

This was he, that saintly John,
Who in the wilderness alone
Abiding, did for clothing wear
A garment made of camels' hair;
Honey and locusts were his food,
And he was most severely good.
He preached penitence and tears,
And waking first the sinner's fears,
Prepared a path, made smooth a way,
For his diviner Master's day.

Herod kept in princely state His birth-day. On his throne he sate, After the feast, beholding her Who danced with grace peculiar; Fair Salome, who did excel All in that land for dancing well. The feastful monarch's heart was fired, And whate'er thing she desired,

David and his three captains bold
Kept ambush once within a hold.

1 Hampstead.

Though half his kingdom it should be, Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
He in his pleasure swore that he

Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.
Would give the graceful Salome.

Thou pretty art and fair, The damsel was Herodias' daughter:

But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare She to the queen hastes, and besought her No need for Blanch her history to tell ; To teach her what great gift to name. Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. Instructed by Herodias, came

But when I look on thee, I only know The damsel back; to Herod said,

There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago. “Give me John the Baptist's head ; And in a charger let it be Hither straightway brought to me."

LINES Herod her suit would fain deny,

ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, But for his oath's sake must comply.

When painters would by art express WHILE young John runs to greet
Beauty in unloveliness,

The greater Infant's feet,
Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,

The Mother, standing by, with trembling passion They fittest subject take to be.

of devout admiration, They give thy form and features grace ; Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; But ever in thy beauteous face

Nor knows as yet the full event They show a stedfast cruel gaze,

Of those so low beginnings, An eye un pitying; and amaze

From whence we date our winnings, In all beholders deep they mark,

But wonders at the intent That thou betrayest not one spark

Of those new riles, and what that strange child-worof feeling for the ruthless deed,

ship meant
That did thy praiseful dance succeed. But at her side
For on the head they make you look, An angel doth abide,
As if a sullen joy you took,

With such a perfect joy
A cruel triumph, wicked pride,

As no dim doubts alloy,
That for your sport a saint had died.

An intuition,
A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew
All the blest wonders should ensue,

Or, he had lately left the upper sphere,
The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, And had read all the sov'reign schemes and divine
To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess

riddles there.
• Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye

Blanch look'd on a rose-bud, and little seem'd to heed.
She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and

MATERNAL lady with the virgin grace,

Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, thought On all her heart had whisper'd and all the Nun had

And thou a virgin pure. taught.

Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my

Men look upon, they wish to be fame,

A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the

CHILDHOOD. My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse from me.

Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my head, Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, noble dead,

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand .t would nothing well avail me that I were wor- (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled, shipp'd here."

Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn

Bound with so playful and so light a foot,

That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.




Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place

On the green bill top,
Or Blanch the lady of the matchless grace? Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,

And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
Tho Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
The name and date to the chance passenger. Whose leaves shall heal the nations ; underneath
For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
Well-earn'd, the bread of service :-hers was else From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
A mounting spirit, one that entertain'd

On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,
Or aught unscemly. I remember well
Her reverend image: I remember, too,
With what a zeal she served her master's house ;
And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age

Delighted to recount the oft-iold tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,

From broken visions of perturbed rest
And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. And could in apt and voluble terms discourse

How total a privation of all sounds, Of births, of uitles, and alliances ;

Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Of marriages, and intermarriages ;

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven! Relationship remote, or near of kin;

"T were some relief to catch the drowsy cry

Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise of friends offended, family disgracedMaiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying

Of revel, reeling home from midnight cups. Parental strict injunction, and regardless

Those are the moanings of the dying man, Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,

Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moane,

And interrupted only by a cough
Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong

Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.

So in the bitterness of death he lies,
Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly
Things light or trivial. Better 't were to tell,

And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,

What can that do for him, or what restore ? She served her heavenly Master. I have seen

Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, That reverend form bent down with age and pain, of health, and active life-health not yet slain,

And litile images of pleasures past,
And rankling malady. Yet not for this

Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
Her trust in Him, her faith, and humble hope-

For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-

He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,

And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
For she had studied patience in the school
Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived,

When night comes, I shall get a little rest."
And was a follower of the NAZARENE.

Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
'Tis darkness and conjecture, all beyond;
Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,

And Fancy, most licentious on such themes

Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,

Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down, The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Discredit on the gospel's serious truths Of one who from the far-off hills proclaims And salutary fears. The man of parts, Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when

Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear

Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates Of the contemplant, solitary man,

A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars And oft again, hard matter, which eludes

Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of controversy, where no end appears,

Of men, his brethren, fashiond of the earth, No clue to his research, the lonely man

As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Half wishes for society again.

Belike his kindred or companions once Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Through everlasting ages now divorced, Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in In chains and savage torments to repent The cheering music; his relenting soul

Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard Yearns after all the joys of social life,

In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
And softens with the love of human-kind.

For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb
The delicate sense and most divine repose

Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS. The measure of his judgments is not fix'd

By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,

No such inordinate difference and vast
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
In the bright visions of empyreal light,

Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, No man on earth is holy callid : they best


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Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.

LIVING WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. MYSTERY of God! thou bravo and beauteous world Made fair with light and shade and stars and Aowers, Made fearful and august with woods and rocks, Jagg'd precipice, black mountain, sea in storms, Sun, over all, that no co-rival owns, But through heaven's pavement rides, as in despite Or mockery of the littleness of man! I see a mighty arm, by man unseen, Resistless, not to be controll'd, that guides, In solitude of unshared energies, All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world ! Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse On man, who, trusting in his mortal strength, Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams. We consecrate our total hopes and fears To idols, flesh and blood, our love (heaven's due), Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed By man on man, and acts of worship done To a kindred nature, certes do reflect Some portion of the glory and rays oblique Upon the politic worshipper. So man Extracts a pride from his humility. Some braver spirits of the modern stamp Affect a Godhead nearer: These talk loud Of mind, and independent intellect, Of energies omnipotent in man, And man of his own fate artificer; Yea, of his own life lord, and of the days Of his abode on earth, when time shall be That life immortal shall become an art, Or death, by chymic practices deceived, Forego the scent, which for six thousand years Like a good hound he has follow'd ; or at length, More manners learning, and a decent sense And reverence of a philosophic world, Relent, and leave to prey on carcasses. But these are fancies of a few: the rest, Atheists, or Deists only in the name, By word or deed deny a God. They eat Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven Without or thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps, No more, that lights them to their purposes. They wander“ loose about;" they nothing see, Themselves except, and creatures like themselves, Short-lived, short-sighted, impotent to save. So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late, Destruction cometh“ like an armed man," Or like a dream of murder in the night, Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking The bones of all their pride.

Was in her cradle-coffin lying ;
Extinct, with scarce a show of dying :
So soon to exchange th' imprisoning womb
For darker prison of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth—then straight up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.-
Riddle of Destiny! who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
Whal thy errand here below?
Shall we say that Nature, blind,
Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire ?-
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire,
(With her tedious workings sicken'd)
That should thy little limbs have quicken'd!
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature;
Womanhood in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by ;-
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
That, babe or mother, one must die;
So, in mercy, left the stock
And cut the branch: to save the shock
of young years widow'd: and the pain
When simple state comes back again
To the lorn man, who, 'rest of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
The economy of Heav'n is dark;
And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
Why Heaven's buds, like this, should fall
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has his day; while shrivell’d crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of a hundred years.
Mother's pratile, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose ;
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Corals redder than those lips
Which pale Death did late eclipse ;
Music framed for infant’s glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them
(Loving hearts were they which gave them),
Let not one be missing : Nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of Infant, slain by Joom perverse.-
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls! to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity ?


I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious piece of Nature's work,
A floweret crushed in the bud,
A nameless maid, in babyhood,

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. FRESH elad from Heaven, in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,

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