Spirits of all degrees rejoice

In presence of the lyre.

"The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.

"Some, still more delicate of ear,
Have lutes (believe my words)
Whose framework is of gossamer,
While sunbeams are the chords.

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, Made vocal by their brushing wings, And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport Around its polished strings;

"Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

"Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars.

XIX.

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITF HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade, -

I who ne'er sat within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn

By shepherd groom or May-day queen,

Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet though to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart,
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy raging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace:
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.

And so may we, with charmed mind

Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,

A new Forget-me-not.

From earth to heaven with motion fleet,

From heaven to earth, our thoughts will pass,

A Holy-Thistle here we meet

And there a Shepherd's Weather-glass ;

And haply some familiar name

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant,

Whose presence cheers the drooping frame
Of English Emigrant.

Gazing, she feels its power beguile

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile

Is but a harbinger of death:

And pointing with a feeble hand,

She says, in faint words by sighs broken,. Bear for me to my native land

This precious Flower, true love's last token

XX.

GLAD sight wherever new with old

Is joined, through some dear home-born tie! The life of all that we behold

Depends upon that mystery.

Vain is the glory of the sky,

The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye

We gaze, we also learn to love.

XXI.

THE CONTRAST.

THE PARROT AND THE WREN.

I.

WITHIN her gilded cage confined,
I saw a dazzling Belle,

A Parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is NONPAREIL.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes;
And, smoothed by Nature's skill,
With pearl or gleaming agate vies
Her finely-curvèd bill.

Her plumy mantle's living hues,
In mass opposed to mass,
Outshine the splendor that imbues
The robes of pictured glass.

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate
Did never tempt the choice
Of feathered thing most delicate
In figure and in voice.

But, exiled from Australian bowers,

And singleness her lot,

She trills her song with tutored powers,

Or mocks each casual note.

No more of pity for regrets

With which she may have striven !

Now but in wantonness she frets,

Or spite, if cause be given;

Arch, volatile, a sportive bird
By social glee inspired;
Ambiticus to be seen or heard,

And pleased to be admired!

II.

THIS moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry,
Harbors a self-contented Wren,

Not shunning man's abode, though shy,
Almost as thought itself, of human ken.