222 SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. And now when I seemed sure thy face to see, Thy own dear self in our own quiet home; There came an elfish laugh, and wakened me: 'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb, And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping. I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a weeping!* 1798-9. SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. IF I had but two little wings, Το you I'd fly, my dear! But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! But then one wakes, and where am I? Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, *See Note. 1798-9. ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE. AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE. God be with thee, gladsome Ocean! Dissuading spake the mild physician, "Those briny waves for thee are death!" But my soul fulfilled her mission, And lo! I breathe untroubled breath! Fashion's pining sons and daughters, Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,) A blessed shadow of this Earth! O ye hopes, that stir within me, I cannot die, if Life be Love. 1801. THE KEEPSAKE. THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, In the cool morning twilight, early waked Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, Making a quiet image of disquiet In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she owned her love, * 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. And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched 1801. THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before it gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week And sweet it is, in summer bower, But what is all, to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, |