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ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

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IX.

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

The stars look very cold about the sky,

And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,

Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:

For I am brimfull of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found;

Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

X.

To one who has been long in city pent,

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven, —to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel, —an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

XI.

On first looking into Chapman's Homer.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

XII.

On leaving some Friends at an early Hour.

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;

Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,

Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:

And let there glide by many a pearly car,

Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,

And half discovered wings, and glances keen.

The while let music wander round my ears.

And as it reaches each delicious ending,

Let me write down a line of glorious tone,

And full of many wonders of the spheres:

For what a height my spirit is contending!

'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

XIII.

ADDRESSED TO HAYDON.

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,

Dwells here and there with people of no name,

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:

And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a " singleness of aim, "

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,

Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

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