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Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd
With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him- in his golden prime,





Thou who stealest fire,
From the fountains of the past,
To glorify the present; oh, haste,

Visit my low desire !
Strengthen me, enlighten me !
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.

Whilome thou camest with the morning


And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my

open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the

rudest wind

Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year).

Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant

Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from

thee The light of thy great presence; and the

Of the half-attain'd futurity,

Tho' deep not fathomless,
Was cloven with the million stars which

tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress ; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could

dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and

beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from

The illimitable years.
O strengthen me, enlighten me !
I faint in this obscurity,
Thou dewy dawn of memory.

II. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd


Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning

mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have


When, she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely

freight Ofoverflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of

fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare.


Come forth, I charge thee, arise,
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad

eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting


Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray

hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.

O! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled


Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd

loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung


And foremost in thy various gallery

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls
Upon the storied walls ;

For the discovery
And newness of thine art so pleased thee,
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightiy weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early

days : No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless

Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor

mous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to



Large dowries doth the raptured eye
To the young spirit present
When first she is wed ;

And like a bride of old
In triumph led,

With music and sweet showers

Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Me

mory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought

gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first


Or a garden bower'd close
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,

galleys falling down to twilight grots,
Or opening upon level plots
Of crowned lilies, standing near
Purple-spiked lavender :
Whither in after life retired
From brawling storms,
From weary wind,
With youthful fancy re-inspired,

We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.

My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne !

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Most delicately hour by hour
He canvass'd human mysteries,
And trod on silk, as if the winds
Blew his own praises in his eyes,
And stood aloof from other minds
In impotence of fancied power.

II. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh


An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul

grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting


And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

With lips depress'd as he were meek,
Himself unto himself he sold :
Upon himself himself did feed :
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold,
And other than his form of creed,
With chisell'd features clear and sleek.



The poet in a golden clime was bom,

With golden stars above ;
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn

of scorn,
The love of love.

With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, “The wanderings

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