The nympholepsy of some fond despair; The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, The purity of heaven to earthly joys, The dull satiety which all destroys And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Wisdom Unapplied. I. If I were thou, O Butterfly, And poised my purple wings, to spy The sweetest flowers that live and die, BYRON. II. I would not waste my strength on those, III. If I were thou, O working bee, IV. I would not hive it at man's door, As thou, that heirdom of my store V. If I were thou, O eagle proud, And screamed the thunder back aloud, And faced the lightning from the cloud; VI. I would not build my eyrie-throne, VII. If I were thou, O gallant steed, With pawing hoof, and dancing head, VIII. I would not meeken to the rein, IX. If I were thou, red-breasted bird, Whose song 's at shut-up window heard, Like Love's sweet Yes too long deferred; X. I would not overstay delight, As thou, but take a swallow flight, XI. While yet I spake, a touch was laid XII. "If I were thou, who singst this song, Most wise for others; and most strong In seeing right, while doing wrong; 66 XIII. I would not waste my cares, and choose, As thou,-to seek what thou must lose, Such gains as perish in the use. XIV. "I would not work where none can win, As thou,-half way 'twixt grief and sin, But look above, and judge within. XV. "I would not let my pulse beat high, As thou, toward fame's regality, Nor yet in love's great jeopardy. XVI. "I would not champ the hard cold bit, XVII. "I would not play earth's winter out, XVIII. "Then sing, O Singer!-but allow ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Ode. ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. Now the golden morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground; |