Above thro' many a bowery turn
A walk with vary-colour'd shells
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side
All round about the fragrant marge
From fluted vase, and brazen urn
In order, eastern flowers large,

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard Some dropping low their crimson bells

Half-closed, and others studded wide
With disks and tiars, fed the time
With odour in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemon grove
In closest coverture upsprung,

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn-In many a dark delicious curl,

A realm of pleasance, many a mound,

And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn
Full of the city's stilly sound,

And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
The stately cedar, tamarisks,
Thick rosaries of scented thorn,

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;
The sweetest lady of the time,
Well worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich

To glorify the present; oh, haste, The light of thy great presence; and the

Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Come forth, I charge thee, arise,
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of Thou of the many tongues, the myriad

Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest Memory!

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried :

Come from the woods that belt the gray
hill-side,

The seven elms, the poplars four
That stand beside my father's door,
And chiefly from the brook that loves
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,
In every elbow and turn,

The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.
O! hither lead thy feet!

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled
folds,

Upon the ridged wolds,

When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,

What time the amber morn

And foremost in thy various gallery

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls
Upon the storied walls;

For the discovery

And newness of thine art so pleased thee,
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs
With thee unto the love thou bearest
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like,
Ever retiring thou dost gaze

On the prime labour of thine early
days:

No matter what the sketch might be ;
Whether the high field on the bushless
Pike,

Or even a sand-built ridge

Of heaped hills that mound the sea,
Overblown with murmurs harsh,

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor-
mous marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,
Like emblems of infinity,

The trenched waters run from sky to
sky;

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung Or a garden bower'd close

cloud.

V.

Large dowries doth the raptured eye

To the young spirit present
When first she is wed;

And like a bride of old

In triumph led,

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,
Or opening upon level plots

Of crowned lilies, standing near
Purple-spiked lavender :

Whither in after life retired

From brawling storms,

With music and sweet showers From weary wind,

Of festal flowers,

Unto the dwelling she must sway.

Well hast thou done, great artist Me

mory,

In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold;

With youthful fancy re-inspired,

We may hold converse with all forms

Of the many-sided mind,

And those whom passion hath not blinded,
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.

My friend, with you to live alone,

Needs must thou dearly love thy first Were how much better than to own

essay,

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne !

Earthward he boweth the heavy More purely, when they wish to charm

With lips depress'd as he were meek, At the moist rich smell of the rotting Himself unto himself he sold : leaves,

Of the fading edges of box beneath, And other than his form of creed,