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So sleeping, so aroused from sleep
Ah, yet would I—and would I might!
So much your eyes my fancy takeBe still the first to leap to light,
That I might kiss those eyes awake! For, am I right or am I wrong,
To choose your own you did not care; You'd have my moral from the song,
And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong,
My fancy, ranging through and through, To search a meaning for the song,
Perforce will still revert to you; Nor finds a closer truth than this
All-graceful head, so richly curled, And evermore a costly kiss,
The prelude to some brighter world.
For since the time when Adam first
What eyes, like thine, have wakened hopes? What lips, like thine, so sweetly joined ? Where on the double rosebud droops
The fulness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved,
Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me;
That lets thee neither hear nor see:
And that for which I care to live.
So, Lady Flora, take my lay,
To shape the song for
That float through Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hueBut take it earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you.
My father left a park to me,
That grows within the woodland.
O had I lived when song was great
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He set up his forlorn pipes,
And flounder into hornpipes.
The mountain stirred its bushy crown,
Coquetting with young beeches;
Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing.
The linden broke her ranks and rent
The woodbine wreaths that bind her,
Came wet-shod alder from the wave,
Each plucked his one foot from the grave, .
Old elms came breaking from the vine,
And wasn't it a sight to see,
Looked down, half-pleased, half-frightened, As dashed about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lightened!
O, nature first was fresh to men,
You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance: Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons.
'Tis vain! in such a brassy age
I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge
Scarce answer to my whistle;
But what is that I hear? a sound
They read Botanic Treatises,
And Works on Gardening through there, And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there.
The withered Misses! how they prose
From England to Van Diemen.
But these, though fed with careful dirt,
That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain.
And I must work through months of toil,
To grow my own plantation.
ST. AGNES' EVE.
DEEP on the convent-roof the snows
The shadows of the convent-towers
As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground;