Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; And I will flit into it with my lyre, And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity Makes this alarm in the elements, While I here idle listen on the shores O tell me, lonely Goddess! by thy harp, Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, grey legends, dire events, rebellions, Creations and destroyings, all at once And so become immortal."-Thus the God, Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush Most like the struggle at the gate of death; Or liker still to one who should take leave Her arms as one who prophesied. At length Celestial * * * * MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. What more felicity can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with liberty? Fate of the Butterfly.-SPENSer. N DEDICATION. TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. GLORY and Loveliness have pass'd away; No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, Places of nestling green for poets made. I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, Story of Rimini. The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, |