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How long is 't since the mighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sun-beams,

Or when grey clouds are thy cold cover-lid?

Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep!

Thy life is but two dead eternities—

The last in air, the former in the deep:

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies—

Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,

Another cannot wake thy giant size.

EPISTLES.

Among the rest a shepherd (though but young
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.

Britannia's Pastorals.—Browne.

TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;

Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true

Than that in which the brother poets joy'd,

Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.

The thought of this great partnership diffuses'

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend ! fain would I follow thee

Past each horizon of fine poesy;

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float

'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:

But 't is impossible ; far different cares

Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs,"

And hold my faculties so long in thrall,

That I am oft in doubt whether at all

I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:

Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

Or a rapt seraph in B moonlight beam;

Or again witness what with thee I've seen,

The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,

After a night of some quaint jubilee

Which every elf and fay had come to see:

When bright processions took their airy march

Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.

But might I now each passing moment give

To the coy muse, with me she would not live

In this dark city, nor would condescend

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,

Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic,

That often must have seen a poet frantic;

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,

And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;

Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,

With its own drooping buds, but very white.

Where on one side are covert branches hung,

'Mong which the nightingales have always sung

In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy,

To say " Joy not too much in all that's bloomy."

Yet this is vain—O Mathew ! lend thy aid

To find a place where I may greet the maid—

Where we may soft humanity put on,

And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton;

And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him

Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages

Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages:

And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness,

And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness

To those who strove with the bright golden wing

Of genius, to flap away each sting

Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell

Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;

Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;

Of him whose name to every heart's a solace,

High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

While to the rugged north our musing turns,

We well might drop a tear for him and Burns.

Felton ! without incitements such as these,

How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease!

For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,
And make "a sunshine in a shady place:"
For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming wild,
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled,
Whence gush the streams of song : in happy hour
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,
Just as the sun was from the east uprising;
And, as for him some gift she was devising,
Beheld thee, pluck M thee, cast thee in the stream
To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.
I marvel much that thou hast never told
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold
Apollo changed thee: how thou next didst seem
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace
The placid features of a human face;
That thou hast never told thy travels strange,
And all the wonders of the mazy range
O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;
Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly hands.
November, 1815.

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE.

Full many a dreary hour have I past,

My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast

With heaviness ; in seasons when I've thought

No sphery strains by me could ever be caught

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze

On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;

Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:

That I should never hear Apollo's song,

Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:

That the still murmur of the honey-bee

Would never teach a rural song to me:

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold

Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see

In water, earth, or air, but poetry.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)

That when a Poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel;

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

Is the swift opening of their wide portal,

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach nought on earth but poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide,

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,

And view the glory of their festivals:

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem

Fit for the silvering of a seraph's dream;

Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run,

Like the bright spots that move about the sun;

And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar

Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers,

Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers;

And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows

'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,

Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,

As gracefully descending, light and thin,

Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,

When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,

And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore:

Should he upon an evening ramble fare %

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,

Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue,

With all its diamonds trembling through and through?

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,

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