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In sight of the Spires,
All alive with the fires Of the Sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them, - what matter? 'tis theirs ; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please !"
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The Showers of the Spring
Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; Each Wave, one and t’other, speeds after his brother ; They are happy, for that is their right!
ON SEEING A
NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP,
THE WORK OF E. M. S.
Frowns are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimickry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own Needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,
Like station could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living Lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?
I spake, when whispered a low voice,
“ Bard ! moderate your ire ; “ 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 love-sick 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 shines bright,
“ Love stoops as fondly as he soars.”