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Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Short-lived likings may be bred
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.
"WHO but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise,
Their ability to measure
With great enterprise;
But in man was ne'er such daring
Mark him, how his power he uses,
Clouds and utter glooms!
There he wheels in downward mazes;
With uninjured plumes!"—
Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
But such mockery as the nations
Lift men from their native stations,
Such it is; the aspiring creature
Dry and withered, light and yellow;-
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE
FORM OF A HARP.
THE WORK OF E. M.
FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation! Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own needle that subdued
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Such honour could not merit.
And this too from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?
I spake, when whispered a low voice,
The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Some, still more delicate of ear,
Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 35 By fanciful embroideries.
Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
TO A LADY,
IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,
Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen.
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.
Beholding what your skill has wrought,
From earth to heaven with motion fleet
And there a Shepherd's weather-glass;
Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant.
Gazing she feels its power beguile
Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek that tender smile
Is but a harbinger of death:
And pointing with a feeble hand
She says, in faint words by sighs broken,
Bear for me to my native land
This precious Flower, true love's last token. 40
GLAD sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
Depends upon that mystery.