Puslapio vaizdai
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VII.

THERE is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name! — It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile, a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!

Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;
But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they,
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

VIII.

HER only Pilot the soft breeze the Boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note

All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide

If the Heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote

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 it hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?

IX.

;

THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade
The sweetest notes must terminate and die;
O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Such strains of rapture as *the Genius played
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high;
He who stood visible to Mirzah's eye,
Never before to human sight betrayed.

Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!

The visionary Arches are not there,

Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, From which I have been lifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.

* See the vision of Mirzah in the Spectator.

X.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A

BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.

PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon Cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that Band of Travellers on their way,

Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And shewed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering Bay.
Soul-soothing Art! which Morning, Noon-tide, Even
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,

Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

XI.

"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmuringsDull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far

From its own Country, and forgive the strings."
A simple answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art

Divine of words quickening insensate Things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless Men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils;
Sun, Moon, and Stars, all struggle in the toils

Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then
If the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native Fields?

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