Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

FLOWERS OF THE GARDEN.

A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew,
And the young Winds fed it with silver dew,
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss

In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,

Like a doe in the noon-tide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.

The Snowdrop, and then the Violet,

Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,

And their breath was mix'd with fresh odour, sent
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

Then the pied Wind-flowers and the Tulip tall,
And Narcissi, the fairest among them all,

Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.

And the Naiad-like Lily of the vale,

Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green;

And the Hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft and intense,

It was felt like an odour within the sense;

And the Rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;

And the wand-like Lily, which lifted up,
As a Mænad, its moonlight-colour'd cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,

Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;

And the Jessamine faint, and the sweet Tuberose,

The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

The Sensitive Plant.

'Der Wahn ist kurz, die Reu' ist lang.'

--

WHEN the lamp is shatter'd, The light in the dust lies dead When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed; When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute—
No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest:
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.
O, Love who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,

As the storms rock the ravens on high:

Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle-home

Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

TO THE SPIRIT OF DELIGHT.

RARELY, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?

Many a weary night and day
"Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismay'd:

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Thou wilt come for pleasure :

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow,

and all the forms

Of the radiant frost :

I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good.

Between thee and me

What difference? But thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love; though he has wings,

And like light can flee;

But, above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! O come,

Make once more my heart thy home.