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The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: A lovely convalescent;
The sunny showers, the dappled sky, On the green sheep-track, up the heathy The little birds that warble high, hill,
Their vernal loves commencing, Homeward I wind my way; and lo! / Will better welcome you than I recalled
With their sweet influencing. From bodings that have well - nigh Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray: I find myself upon the brow, and pause
You made us grow devouter ! Startled! And after lonely sojourning
Each eye looked up and seemed to say, In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
How can we do without her ? This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty They have no need of such as you Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
In the place where you were going : And elmy fields, seems like society-- This World has angels all too few, Conversing with the mind, and giving it And Heaven is overflowing ! A livelier impulse and a dance of March 31, 1798.
thought ! And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
THE NIGHTINGALE Thy church - tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN Clustering, which mark the mansion of
APRIL 1798 my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my No cloud, no relique of the sunken day view,
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe of sullen light, no obscure trembling And my babe's mother dwell in peace !
hues. With light
Come, we will rest on this old mossy And quickened footsteps thitherward I bridge ! tend,
You see the glimmer of the stream Remembering thee, O green and silent
But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, And grateful, that by nature's quietness O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, And solitary musings, all my heart 230
A balmy night! and though the stars be Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
dim, Love, and the thoughts that yearn for Yet let us think upon the vernal showers human kind.
That gladden the green earth, and we NETHER STOWEY, April 20th, 1798.
shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its TO A YOUNG LADY
song, [Miss LAVINIA POOLE] Most musical, most melancholy bird !
A melancholy bird ? Oh! idle thought ! ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. Why need I say, Louisa dear ! But some night - wandering man whose How glad I am to see you here,
heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous
And I know a grove wrong,
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, Which the great lord inhabits not; and (And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things
SO with himself,
This grove is wild with tangling underAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the
And the trim walks are broken up, and Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
grass, First named these notes a melancholy Thin grass and king-cups grow within strain.
the paths. And many a poet echoes the conceit; But never elsewhere in one place I knew Poet who hath been building up the So many nightingales; and far and near, rhyme
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, When he had better far have stretched | They answer and provoke each other's his limbs
songs, Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, With skirmish and capricious passagings, By sun or moon-light, to the influxes And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, Of shapes and sounds and shifting ele- And one low piping sound more sweet ments
than all —
61 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his Stirring the air with such an harmony, song
That should you close your eyes, you And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 30
might almost Should share in Nature's immortality, Forget it was not day! On moonlight A venerable thing! and so his song
bushes, Should make all Nature Tovelier, and Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, itself
You may perchance behold them on the Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both And youths and maidens most poetical,
bright and full,
A most gentle Maid,
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate have learnt
40 To something more than Nature in the A different lore : we may not thus
Glides through the path ways; she knows Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
all their notes, And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That gentle Maid ! and ost, a moment's That crowds, and hurries, and pre
What time the moon was lost behind a With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
cloud, As he were fearful that an April night Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky soul
With one sensation, and those wakeful Of all its music!
be so ;
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, He may associate joy. --- Once more, As if some sudden gale had swept at once
farewell, A hundred airy harps ! And she hath Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my watched
friends ! farewell.
ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE head.
[As printed in the Morning Post for July 30, 1798, with the following heading
The following amusing Tale gives a very humourous description of the French Revolution, which is represented as an Ox.]
An Ox, long fed with musty hay,
And work'd with yoke and chain,
At once with sun and rain.
Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow
eve, And you, my friends ! farewell, a short
farewell ! We have been loitering long and plea
santly, And now for our dear homes. That
wise To make him Nature's play-mate. He
knows well The evening-star; and once, when he
awoke In most distressful mood (some inward
pain Had made up that strange thing, an
infant's dream), I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at
once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most
silently, While his fair
that swam with
A bull-dog fastend on his snout;
gores the dog ! his tongue hangs The ox drove on right through the town, out !
All follow'd, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown :
“Halloo! hamstring him ! cut him down!' 'Stop, neighbours, stop !' aloud did call
They drove the poor ox mad. 60 A sage of sober hue. • You cruel dog !' at once they bawl,
XI And women squeak and children squall,
Should you a rat to madness tease • What? would you have him toss us all ?
Why ev'n a rat might plague you : And dam'me, who are you?' 30 There's no Philosopher but sees
That Rage and Fear are one diseaseVI
Though that may burn, and this may
freeze, Ah ! hapless sage ! his ears they stun,
They're both alike the ague.
Fac'd round like a mad Bull !
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued, VII
Till they with flight and fear were
stew'd, *You'd have him gore the Parish-priest, And not a chick of all the brood And drive against the altar !
But had his belly full ! You rogue !'
The sage his warnings ceas'd,
XIII And north and south, and west and east,
Old Nick's astride the ox, 'tis clear ! Halloo ! they follow the poor beast,
Old Nicholas, to a tittle !
Would but the Parson venture near,
And through his teeth, right o'er the
steer, Old Lewis ('twas his evil day),
Squirt out some fasting-spittle.
Achilles was a warrior fleet,
The Trojans he could worry : 80
The victor ox drove down the street, The baited ox drove on (but here,
The mob fled hurry-scurry.
1 According to the common superstition there Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer!
are two ways of fighting with the Devil. You I could chuse but drop a tear,
may cut him in half with a straw, or he will
vanish if you spit over his horns with a fasting A tear for good old Lewis !)
spittle. (Note by S. T. C. in M. Post.]
In eager haste, without his hat,
As blind and blund'ring as a bat, Through gardens, lanes and fields new
In rush'd that fierce aristocrat, plough’d, Through his hedge, and through her
Our pursy woollen-draper. hedge,
XXI He plung’d and toss'd and bellow'd loud
And so my Muse per force drew bit ; Till in his madness he grew proud
And he rush'd in and panted ! To see this helter-skelter crowd
• Well, have you heard ?' No, not a That had more wrath than courage! 90
whit. What, ha’nt you heard ?' Come, out
with it! XVI
* That Tierney's wounded Mister PITT, Alack ! to mend the breaches wide
And his fine tongue enchanted.'
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 XVIII
And she was there, my hope, my joy, The ox is mad ! Tom ! Walter! Mat ! My own dear Genevieve ! •What means this coward fuss ?
She leant against the armed man, Ho! stretch this rope across the plat-
The statue of the armed knight; 'Twill trip him up--or if not that,
She stood and listened to my lay, Why, dam’me ! we must lay him flat
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own.
My hope! my joy ! my Genevieve ! • A barefaced dog! just now he said
She loves me best, whene'er I sing The ox was only glad
The songs that make her grieve. Let's break his Presbyterian head !' *Hush !' quoth the sage, you've been
I played a soft and doleful air, misled ;
I sang an old and moving storyNo quarrels now ! let's all make head,
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary. You drove the poor ox mad.'
She listened with a flitting blush, xx
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; But lo, to interrupt my chat,
For well she knew, I could not choose With the morning's wet newspaper,
But gaze upon her face.