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As fair fingers heal'd
Knights from the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. Ev'n the terror, poison,
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with
See those tops, how beauteous!
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught, perchance, that dream
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon nights divine. To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not;
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.
Think of all these treasures
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright show'rs
We thicken fields and bow'rs,
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:
Think of the mossy forests
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.
Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring:
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen
Of planet-pressing ocean,
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace,—a thought for meek devotion.
Tears of Phoebus,-missings
Of Cytherea's kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill:
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning.
Oh! true things are fables,
And the flow'rs are true things,-yet no fables they;
Fables were not more
Bright, nor loved of yore,—
Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway: Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never :
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise,-marvels sweet for ever.
Who shall say, that flowers
Dress not heaven's own bowers?
Who its love, without us, can fancy—or sweet floor?
Who shall even dare
To say, we sprang not there,
And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n
Oh! pray believe that angels
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions.
TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
Smooths off the day's annoy.
Of all thy winning ways;
Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,
That wipes thy quiet tears,-
Sorrows I've had, severe ones
And pat my stooping head,
Ah! firstborn of thy mother,
When life and hope were new;
My bird when prison bound,-
To say, "He has departed,”–
"His voice,”—“ his face,”—“ is gone;"
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on :
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such wo, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!
Seem whispering us a smile:-
Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, "We've finished here."
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.
KING Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, than there."
Faith, gentlemen, we're better here
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;
She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,—