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Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,
Hare kindled into health!
“ Another year is ours;"
Have smiled upon thy flowers.
Who tripping lisps a merry song
Amid his playful peers ?
A prisoner of fond fears;
Is quiet in its sheath,
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.
Thy help is with the weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground; No cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favours may be found; But most on some peculiar nook
That our own hands have drest, Thou and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.
And yet how pleased we wander forth
When May is whispering, “Come! “ Choose from the bowers of virgin earth
“ The happiest for your home;
“Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread
“ From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, “Drops on the mouldering turret's head, “And on your turf-clad graves !
Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,
Forsaken' in the shade!
Are linked in endless chase; While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.
And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;
Have perished in thy sight;
Were caught as in a snare;
However bright and fair.
Lo! Streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Loitering in glassy pool:
Such gentle mists as glide,
On that green mountain's side.
How delicate the leafy veil
Through which yon house of God
By few but shepherds trod!
No sooner stand attired
Peep forth, and are admired.
Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour,
Nor add to it a flower!
Of self-restraining art,
SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE.
[This Portrait has hung for many years in our principal sitting
room, and represents J. Q. as she was when a girl. The picture, though it is somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect : it is chiefly valuable, however, from the sentiment that pervades it. The Anecdote of the saying of the Monk in sight of Titian's picture was told in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, first communicated to the public in this poem, the former portion of which I was composing at the time. Southey heard the story from Miss Hutchinson, and transferred it to the “Doctor;" but it is not easy to explain how my friend Mr. Rogers, in a note
subsequently added to his “Italy,” was led to speak of the
gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
A silver line, that runs from brow to crown And in the middle parts the braided hair,
Just serves to show how delicate a soil
Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me
Her right hand, as it lies