I.

Tell ever-fleeting wanderer, tell,
Ah! how shall I define thee?
Of every novel whim the prey,
What magic can confine thee?

II.

Vainly thy airy flight I'd check,
Thou fluttering, wavering thing,
Bound all thy fond romantic views,
And clip thy sportive wing!

III.

Vainly to thee does reason preach,
Or caution on thee lours;
You smile away their frowns, and list
Among the laughing hours!

What blooming garlands shall the Muses twine,
What verdant laurels weave, what flowers combine,
To crown their favorite Son whose generous heart
Has check'd the arrogance of Critic Art,
And shewn that still in their exhaustless mine
The purest gems of radiant Genius shine,
To grace the venturous Poets who explore
The unsun'd treasures of their sacred store?

Nor this the Syren note of flattering praise,
Or the fond tribute partial friendship pays;
A voice unknown to fame, to thee unknown,
But wak'd by thy superior worth alone,

E'l cantar che nell animo si senti. —

As oft beneath the foliage gay,
I see thee perch'd on trembling spray,
Chants thou to departing day,
or sing'st to me?
If so, I'll tune a grateful lay,
sweet bird, to thee!

Thou last sweet songster of the grove,
Whose notes of melody can move
The soul to softest melancholy,
Banishing all earth-born folly,
Sweetly sad thy song I find,
Harmonizing still my mind;
When the shades of evening hour,
On the face of nature lour,

I swear it by Parnassus mount,
By Hippocranes' imposing fount;
By waters of Acidalus,
By sacred streams of Illysus;
By Helicon, — Castalian rill,
By Aganippe, — Pindus' hill;
Apollo's laurel, and his lyre,
Melpom'ne's tears, — Thalia's fire!
By wise Minerva's sagest owl,
By Royal Juno's sacred fowl;
By Cupid's bow, — and brother Loves,
By Venus' cestus, — and her doves;
By cup of Ganymede and Hebe,
By brightest beam of silver Phoebe;
By Ida's love-inspiring air,
Nay, by thy ingrate self I swear;

(“J'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.”)

Within thy cities of the olden time
Dearly I love to list the ringing chime,
Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth,
Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North
A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel,
Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile.
The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye—
Prompt her affections to personify—
It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed
In guise of Andalusian dancing maid,
Appealing by a crevice fine and rare,
As of a door oped in “th' incorporal air.”

Beyond all titles, dignity, and birth,
Oh, lovely Princess! shines thy native worth!
Thy noble Consort, whom the world admires,
Enjoys each deed thy charity inspires;
For Christian Virtue, with refulgent ray,
Gleams, with benignant lustre, o'er thy way!—
Had Heav'n assign'd thee far an humbler lot,
Still had it sparkled in the lowly cot:
But more it kindles from the mountain's height,
And spreads with nobler pow'rs its radiant light!

The flowers of the Spring that enamel the vale,
Give their dyes to the meadows, their sweets to the gale,
From the sun-beam, the shower, and the soft-falling dew
Receive all their treasures of odour, and hue.

When Winter extends his tyrannical reign,
Fades every gay blossom that painted the plain,
And all the bright offspring of sunshine and showers
Shrink up at the blast of D ECEMBER 's stern hours,

Though Love's gentle power can more sweetness disclose
Than the vi'let or woodbine, the jasmine or rose,

White bud, that in meek beauty so dost lean
Thy cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow,
Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green,
An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow.

White bud! thou 'rt emblem of a lovelier thing,
The broken spirit that its anguish bears
To silent shades, and there sits offering
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears.

Whylom in Kent there dwelt a clerke
Who wyth grete cheer and litil werke
Upswalen was with venere:
For meagre Lent ne recked he,
Ne saincts daies had in remembraunce,
Mo will had he to dalliaunce.
To serchen out a bellamie
He had a sharp and licorous eie;
But it wold bett abide a leke
Or onion than the sight of Greke;
Wherefore God yeve him shame; Boccace
Serv'd him for Basil and Ignace.
His vermeil cheke, that shon wyth mirth,
Spake him the blithest priest on yearth:
At chyrch, to shew his lillied hond,

In ancient times when like L A M ANCHA 's Knight
The adventurous Hero sallied forth to fight,
Some sage Magician famous in Romance
Supplied the Warrior with a wonderous lance,
With which through adverse troops he forced his way,
And won from giant hosts the doubtful day.
But I more fatal arms to you impart,
By Venus forged to wound the human heart:
This Weapon placed in your victorious hand
No cunning shall elude, no force withstand,
Nor shall the brave resist, or coward fly,
But all Mankind submit, adore, or die.