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Thou a seraph art to go
I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ;
Faint oxslips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-
Arcturi] northern stars.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As scothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
hand—and then, elate and gay, I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, That I might there present it!-Oh, to whom ?
HELEN, thy beauty is to me
weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
To the glory that was Greece,
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Are Holy Land!
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee ;
Is thy sweet voice to me :
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep ;
As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee,
The Solitary Reaper
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
Will no one tell me what she sings ?-
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
Between the winding willows
Blue shade of golden branches
The Wayfarer 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.