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Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Short-lived likings may be bred
But true love is like the thread
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
“WHO but hails the sight with pleasure
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
Such it is; the aspiring creature
Dry and withered, light and yellow ;-
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE
FORM OF A HARP.
FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation!
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,
I spake, when whispered a low voice,
The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Some, still more delicate of ear,
Have lutes (believe my words) Whose framework is of gossamer,
While sunbeams are the chords.
Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 35
Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
TO A LADY,
ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
Still as we look with nicer care,
FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade, I who ne'er sate within their bowers,
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.
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
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
Depends upon that mystery.
GLAD sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie; The life of all that we behold