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A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven,
That no one breathing should be left to perish,
Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude
Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none find grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
GLAD sight, wherever new with old
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
We gaze, we also learn to love.
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
From trivial cares.
But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies Must heard, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right
All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch
The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;
And now, unforced by time to part
And venture on your praise.
What though some busy foes to good,
To taint the health which ye infuse;
This hides not from the moral Muse,
How oft from you, derided Powers!
Flow from your visionary skill,
And teach us to beware.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift,
Shall vanish, if ye please,
Like morning mist: and, where it lay,
The spirits at your bidding play
In gayety and ease.
Star-guided contemplations move
Through space, through calm, not raised above
Prognostics that ye rule;
The naked Indian of the wild,
And haply, too, the cradled Child,
But who can fathom your intents,
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds,
The laughter of the Christmas hearth