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For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
The least of nature's works, one who might move
Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
a conversational poem, written in april,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper or neglected love,
(And so, poor Wretch ! fill'd all things with himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain 1;
"Most musical, most melancboly." This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.
Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
A venerable thing! and so his song
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other's songs—
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
And one low piping sound more sweet than all