English

From slippery slab to slab I crawl
Above the shattering waterfall.

A mist, like hopeless human prayer,
Curls in the firs and welters there.

Through them I watch descend, descend
The shuddering waters without end.

Gray tears have fallen to swell this flood,
And iron-ruddy drops like blood.

It moans, and sobs, and howls, and sings,
And whispers of heart-breaking things.

For ages it has thundered so
Into the slate-blue lake below.

Each streak of blood, each cold gray tear,

AN ASPIRATION FROM LONDON .

What time the fern puts forth its rings,
What time the early throstle sings,
I love to fly the murky town,
And tread the moorlands, bare and brown;
From greenest level of the glens,
To barest summit of the Bens,
To trace the torrents where they flow,
Serene or brawling, fierce or slow;
To linger pleased, and loiter long,
A silent listener to their song.

Farewell, ye streets! Again I'll sit
On crags to watch the shadows flit;

As t'other day young Damon past,
Where Chloe sat demure,
He dost his hat, and sigh'd and gaz'd,
'Twas love that struck him sure.
With reverence then approach'd the fair,
Which she seem'd very shy at;
And when he prais'd her shape and air,
Cry'd, prithee, Sir, be quiet.

My fair, he cry'd, O be not coy,
Nor think my meaning rude;
Let love like mine thy mind employ,
True love can ne'er intrude,
Her hand he then essay'd to kiss,
Which, frowning, she cry'd fye at;
And when he struggled for the bliss,

Fair Virtue's gem, se in most royal gold,
The worthiest owner of the fairest mansion,
Rich prize, for which Nature and Fortune hold
With Muses and Graces great contention:
All which by agreement this partition make,
None of themselves worthy of all discerning:
Nature your beauty, Graces your virtues take;
Fortune shares your honour, Muses your learning.
Map of perfection, who deserve to be,
And are the worthiest mark the world can yield
For all great Christian princes' love; they see

Dearling of these, of future times the glory;
Branch royal sprung from many a regal stem;
On whose fair structure written is the story
Of Nature's chiefest skill, World's choicest gem,
Wit's richest cabinet, Virtue's best array,
Centre where lines of all hearts' loves do meet:
Sweet ground, whereon the Muses love to play;
Ripe in wit, though green in years, of form most sweet.
Scotland's fair fruit, England's great hope, France's love,
Ireland's awe, Cambria's joy, Great Britain's fame,
Abridgment of all worth. The mighty Jove,

What to do to make thy fame
Live beyond thee in the tomb?
And thine honorable name
Shine, a star, through History's gloom?

Seize the Spirit of thy Time,
Take the measure of his height,
Look into his eyes sublime,
And imbue thee with their light.

Know his words e'er they are spoken,
And with utterance loud and clear,
Firm, persuasive, and unbroken,
Breathe them in the people's ear.

Think whate'er the Spirit thinks,
Feel, thyself, whate'er he feels,
Drink at fountains where he drinks,

Come drink my friend Tom or you'll not have your share,
Come drink my friend Harry, and drive away care,
Come Dick, pr'ythee circle the bumper about,
Come landlord another, this bottle is out.

Beneath this turf lie roses whose pale blood
The very hand of Milton may have shed,
Or wreck of bays once pleated for the head
Of Quarles, whose early modesty withstood
No well-meant clamour of a student-brood;
Great poets here, and Platonists long dead,
By feathered Clio and Urania led,
Have waited for the moment and the mood.

Ah! who shall say these warm and russet walls,
This lustrous pool upon whose mirror falls
The shadow of so many an ancient tree,
Embrace not still the past, as perfumes hold

While amorous Tom in Beauty 's praise,
Holds forth in tender, love-sick lays,
Jack scarcely ever holds his tongue,
But will to Bacchus raise the song;
While Dick for momus chaunts aloud,
Whose humour charms the listning croud.

II.

With which of these shall you and I,
With which of these my friend comply?
Beauty must surely claim our lays,
Yet Bacchus will have equal praise,
And momus too:—then side with neither,
But freely toast them all together.

High up in hollow valleys where dim lakes
In Karahissar find no watershed,
By many a snow-gorged roaring river-bed,
In long white fluttering waves the poppy shakes;

But spring-tide comes at last, and April wakes,
And tears the petals from the golden head,
Till, of its pink wings disinherited,
The opium-laden capsule bends and bakes.

Then, after sunset, the sleek farmers creep
To slash the poppy-globes, and leave them soon
Oozing green tears beneath the gibbous moon;