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Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned . . . . a spirit like his own, Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother's joy,– Oh! was it strange, if at such sympathy The feelings, which within his breast repelled And chilled had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun !
A FEW DAYS FROM MY
May 16-18 Doctor Johnson has said, that few things are better than rolling swiftly along in a post-chaise. To my taste, the transformation of the post-chaise into an open carriage, considerably amends his position. This is my present situation ; and with my tablets in my hand I wish to detain, and, as it were, fasten down the bright images and curious ideas that occur to me, as I am rapidly driven onwards. But how much does their delicious exaltation - their character of joyous exhilaration - depend on the unembodied mystery in which they float
through the mind! As I attempt to develope them to explain them by words to express them by signs – to examine and analyze them, they seem only vapid and common-place. Modes of ratiocination are always the better for a written digest; but the delicate visions of imagination are not susceptible of it. No effort can convey to the mind of his reader the full glory of the poet's conceptions. They are loveliest as shadows — they become gross on becoming palpable.
This clear blue sky overhead - this freshening spring air around — the world of vegetation on every side, swelling with the seeds of new life, and teeming with man's most necessary blessings the broad waves of yon clear river flowing sinoothly towards “the eternal deep," the undulating surface of the country, now arching into mountains - now becoming concave in fertile valleys - the distant hills circumscribing the horizon, their