I. WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE. How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky Look here how honour glorifies the dead, And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold ! Such is the memory of poets old, Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate; Now they are laid under their marbles cold, And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create; But God Apollo hath them all enroll'd, And blazon'd on the very clouds of fate! II. TO FANCY. MOST delicate Ariel! submissive thing, Weighing the light air on a lighter wing ;— Moonlight, and waters, and soft music's strain, Odours, and blooms, and my Miranda's smile, Making this dull world an enchanted isle. III. TO AN ENTHUSIAST. YOUNG ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,- Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind Thine eyes with tears, that thou hast not resign'd To share beyond the lot of common men. IV. It is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this, but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves So duly and so oft,—and when grass waves No resurrection in the minds of men. V. By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall; That sigh'd around her flight; I swear by all, |