Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

1812.

XVII.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

"WHO but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise,

Their ability to measure

With great enterprise !

But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies!

"Mark him, how his power he uses,

Lays it by, at will resumes!

Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms!

There, he wheels in downward mazes ;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes!"

ANSWER.

"Stranger, 't is no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage
'Mid the tempest stern;

But such mockery as the nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations
Like yon TUFT OF FERN;

"Such it is; the aspiring creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied,) is by nature

A dull, helpless thing,

Dry and withered, light and yellow;

That to be the tempest's fellow!

Wait,

and you shall see how hollow Its endeavoring!"

XVIII.

ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.

THE WORK OF E. M. S.

FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.

Even her own needle, that subdued

Arachne's rival spirit,

Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Such honor could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,

A living lord of melody!

How will her Sire be reconciled

To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice:

"Bard! moderate your ire;

Spirits of all degrees rejoice

In presence of the lyre.

"The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.

"Some, still more delicate of ear, Have lutes (believe my words)

Whose framework is of

gossamer,

While sunbeams are the chords.

"Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Made vocal by their brushing wings,
And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings;

"Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

"Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars.

XIX.

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade, –

I who ne'er sat within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn

By shepherd groom or May-day queen,

Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet though to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart,
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy raging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace:
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.