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In sight of the Spires,
All alive with the fires Of the Sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance,- there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them, — what matter? 'tis theirs ; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please !"
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The Showers of the Spring
Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; Each Wave, one and t’other, speeds after his brother ; They are happy, for that is their right!
ON SEEING A
NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP,
THE WORK OF E. M. S.
Frowns are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimickry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.
A 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
Arachne's rival spirit,
Like station 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,
“ Bard! moderate your ire;
“ The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
“ Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, “ Have shells to fit their tiny hands
“ And suit their slender lays.
“ Some, still more delicate of ear,
“ Have lutes (believe my words) “ Whose framework is of
“ Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court,
« Made vocal by their brushing wings, “ And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
“ Around its polished strings;
“ Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear,
“ While in her lonely Bower she tries “ To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
“By fanciful embroideries.
“ Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
“ Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though mid the stars the Lyre shines bright, “ Love stoops as fondly as he soars.”