His virtues, though I know that they are great,
Because he locks, then barricades the gate
Within which they inhabit;-of his wit
And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit.
He is a pearl within an oyster shell,

One of the richest of the deep;—and there
Is English Peacock with his mountain fair
Turned into a Flamingo ;-that shy bird

That gleams i' the Indian air- have you not heard
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo,
His best friends hear no more of him?—but you
Will see him, and will like him too, I hope,
With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope
Matched with this cameleopard- his fine wit
Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it;
A strain too learnèd for a shallow age,
Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page
Which charms the chosen spirits of the time,
Fold itself up for the serener clime
Of years to come, and find it's recompense
In that just expectation. Wit and sense,

Virtue and human knowledge; all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,

Are all combined in Horace Smith. And these,
With some exceptions, which I need not teaze
Your patience by descanting on, are all

You and I know in London.

My thoughts, and bid you look upon the nigh
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight

Fills the void, hollow, universal air —
What see you?-unpavilioned heaven is fair
Whether the moon, into her chamber gone,
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan
Climbs with diminished beams the azure stee
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep,
Piloted by the many-wandering blast,

And the rare stars rush through them dim

fast:

All this is beautiful in every land.

But what see you beside ?- a shabby stand
Of Hackney coaches a brick house or wall
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scr
Of our unhappy politics; or worse

A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse
Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her tra
You must accept in place of serenade
Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring
To Henry, some unutterable thing.

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit
Built round dark caverns, even to the root
Of the living stems that feed them—in whos
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowe
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn

Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne
In circles quaint, and ever changing dance,
Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance,
Pale in the open moonshine, but each one
Under the dark trees seems a little sun,

A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray
From the silver regions of the milky way;
Afar the Contadino's song is heard,

Rude, but made sweet by distance — and a bird
Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet
I know none else that sings so sweet as it
At this late hour;-and then all is still
Now Italy or London, which you will!

Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have
My house by that time turned into a grave
Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,
And all the dreams which our tormentors are;
Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock and Smith were there,
With every thing belonging to them fair!--

We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek;
And ask one week to make another week
As like his father, as I'm unlike mine,
Which is not his fault, as you may divine.
Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host

Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries,-

Feasting on which we will philosophize !

And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's
To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood.
And then we'll talk ;- what shall we talk abo
Oh there are themes enough for many a bo
Of thought-entangled descant ;-as to nerve
With cones and parallelograms and curves
I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare
To bother me -when you are with me there
And they shall never more sip laudanum,
From Helicon or Himeros ;- well, come,
And in despite of God and of the devil,
We'll make our friendly philosophic revel
Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flower
Warn the obscure inevitable hours,
Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew ;-
"Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new

THE WITCH OF ATLAS.

I.

BEFORE those cruel Twins, whom at one birth
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time,
Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth
All those bright natures which adorned its prime,
And left us nothing to believe in, worth

The pains of putting into learnèd rhyme,
A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain
Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.

II.

Her mother was one of the Atlantides:
The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden
In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas
So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden

In the warm shadow of her loveliness;

He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of grey rock in which she lay –

She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away.