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Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur. and music thin of sudden breeze.
THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. 'It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht) and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden.
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,)
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.
In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
She would resign one half of that dear name,
TO A LADY.
WITH FALCONER'S SHIPWRECK."
AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood
On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;
Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity,
Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark!
Cling to the shrouds !" In vain! The breakers
Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,
No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man!
Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?
The elevating thought of suffered pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name
Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,
Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I
O dear as long as life and
I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:
And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.
TO A YOUNG LADY.
ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.
WHY need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here,
A lovely convalescent;
Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
You made us grow devouter!
and seemed to say,
How can we do without her?
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew,
In the place where you were going:
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY.
IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?