To George Felton Mathew
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fill his quill.
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
Than that in which the brother poets joyd,
Who, with combined powers, their wit employed
To raise a trophy to the dramas muses.
The thought of this great partnership diffuses
Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling
Of all thats high, and great, and good, and healing.
Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee
Past each horizon of fine poesy;
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note,
As oer Sicilian seas clear anthems float
Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:
But tis impossible; far different cares
Beckon me sternly from soft Lydian airs,
And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
That I am oft in doubt whether at all
I shall again see Phbus in the morning:
Or flushd Aurora in the roseate dawning!
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;
Or again witness what with thee Ive seen,
The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,
After a night of some quaint jubilee
Which every elf and fay had come to see:
When bright processions took their airy march
Beneath the curved moons triumphal arch.
To the coy muse, with me she would not live
In this dark city, nor would condescend
Mid contradictions her delights to lend.
Should eer the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,
Ah! surely it must be wheneer I find
Some flowery spot, sequesterd, wild, romantic,
That often must have seen a poet frantic;
Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,
And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;
Where the dark-leaved laburnums drooping clusters
Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,
And intertwined the cassias arms unite,
With its own drooping buds, but very white.
Where on one side are covert branches hung,
Mong which the nightingales have always sung
In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof
Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,
Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,
And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.
There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy,
To say, Joy not too much in all thats bloomy.
To find a place where I may greet the maid
Where we may soft humanity put on,
And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton;
And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him
Four laurelld spirits, heavenward to entreat him.
With reverence would we speak of all the sages
Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages:
And thou shouldst moralise on Miltons blindness,
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness
To those who strove with the bright golden wing
Of genius, to flap away each sting
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;
Of him whose name to evry hearts a solace,
High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
While to the rugged north our musing turns,
We well might drop a tear for him and Burns.
Felton! without incitements such as these,
How vain for me the niggard muse to tease!
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,
And make a sunshine in a shady place:
For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled,
Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,
Just as the sun was from the east uprising;
And, as for him some gift she was devising,
Beheld thee, pluckd thee, cast thee in the stream
To meet her glorious brothers greeting beam.
I marvel much that thou hast never told
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold
Apollo changed thee: how thou next didst seem
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace
The placid features of a human face;
That thou hast never told thy travels strange,
And all the wonders of the mazy range
Oer pebbly crystal, and oer golden sands;
Kissing thy daily food from Naiads pearly hands.
To My Brother George
My brain bewilderd, and my mind oercast
With heaviness; in seasons when Ive thought
No sphery strains by me could eer be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness
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