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Let her be comprehended in the frame

Of these illusions, or they please no more.
THE PORTRAIT OF HENRY VIII., TRINITY

LODGE, CAMBRIDGE.
The imperial stature, the colossal stride,
Are yet before me; yet do I behold
The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould,
The vestments broidered with barbaric pride :
And lo! a poniard, at the monarch's side,
Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy
With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye,
Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far descried.
Who trembles now at thy capricious mood?
Mid those surrounding worthies, haughty king!
We rather think, with grateful mind sedate,
How Providence educeth, from the spring
Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good,
Which neither force shall check nor time abate.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III.
Ward of the law!-dread shadow of a king!
Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room :
Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom,
Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling,
Save haply for some feeble glimmering
Of faith and hope; if thou, by nature's doom,
Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb,
Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling,
When thankfulness were best? Fresh-flowing tears,
Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh,
Yield to such afterthought the sole reply
Which justly it can claim. The nation hears
In this deep knell --silent for threescore years,
An unexampled voice of awful memory.

A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, And neighbours rest together, here confound Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends With'shady night. - Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave, And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour.

COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A

CASTLE IN NORTH WALES. THROUGH shattered galleries, mid roofiess halls, Wandering with timid footstep oft betrayed, The stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the thralls Of destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls From the wan moon, upon the towers and walls, Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. Relic of kings! wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves thee! at his call the seasons twine Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar; And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine!

TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S

BRIDGE, NORTH WALES. How art thou named? In search of what strange land, From what huge height, descending? Can such force Of waters issue from a British source ? Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band Of patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand Desperate as thine? Or, come the incessant shocks From that young stream, that smites the throbbing rocks Of Via Mala? There I seem to stand, As in life's morn; permitted to behold, From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods In pomp that fades not, everlasting snows, And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose : Such power possess the family of floods Over the minds of poets, young or old !

“AIRY NOTHINGS." Though narrow be that old man's cares, and near, The poor old man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams : An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer ; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds and monitory gleams Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. He the seven birds hath seen, that never part; Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, And counted them: and oftentimes will startFor overhead are sweeping Gabriel's hounds, Doomed, with their impious lord, the flying hart To chase for ever, on aërial grounds!

TO A REDBREAST. STRANGE visitation? at Jemima's lip Thus hadst thou pecked, wild redbreast! Love might say, A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay Which the muse warms; and I, whose head is gray, Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; Nor could I let one thought-one motion-slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all his, without whose care Vouchsafed, no sparrow falleth to the ground? Who gives his angels wings to speed through air, And rolls the planets through the blue profound; Then peck or perch, fond flutterer! nor forbear To trust a poet in still vision bound.

PHILOCTETES.
When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
Lay couched ;--upon that breathless monument,
On him, or on his fearful bow unbent,
Some wild bird oft might settle, and beguile
The rigid features of a transient smile,
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent,
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment
From home affections, and heroic toil.
Nor doubt that spiritual creatures round us move,
Griefs to allay that reason cannot heal;
And very reptiles have sufficed to prove
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile
Is deep enough to exclude the light of love,
Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.

ΑΝΝΑ. While they, her playmates once, light-hearted tread The mountain turf and river's flowery marge;

Or float with music in the festal barge;
Rein the proud steed, or through the dance are led :
Is Anna doomed to press a weary bed
Till oft her guardian angel, to some charge
More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large,
And friends too rarely prop the languid head.
Yet genius is no feeble comforter:
The presence even of a stuffed owl for her
Can cheat the time; sending her fancy out
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies,
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout,
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes.

TO THE CUCKOO, Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill Like the first summons, cuckoo, of thy bill, With its twin notes inseparably paired. The captive, mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, That cry can reach; and to the sick man's rooin Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared, The lordly eagle-race through hostile search May perish; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the lion roar; But long as cock shall crow from household perch To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, And thy erratic voice be faithful to the spring!

THE INFANT M- MUNQUIET childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase,

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