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1819.

Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unowned of any weedy-haired gods;

Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh-herbaged meads
Make lean and lank the starved ox while he feeds ;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone, with the new dawning light

Steps forth my lady bright!

O, let me once more rest

My soul upon that dazzling breast!

Let once again these aching arms be placed,

The tender gaolers of thy waist!

And let me feel that warm breath here and there,

To spread a rapture in my very hair;

O the sweetness of the pain!

Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!

JOHN CLARE.

1793

[“Poems, Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery." 1820.]

THE FIRST OF MAY.

A BALLAD.

FAIR blooms the rose upon the green,

Pretending to excel;

But who another rose has seen,

A different tale can tell.

The morning smiles, the lark's begun
To welcome in the May:

Be cloudless, skies! look out, bright sun,
And haste my love away.

Though graceful round the maidens move,
That join the rural ball,

Soon shall they own my absent love
The rival of them all.

Go, wake your shepherdess, ye lambs!
And murmur her delay;

Chide her neglect, ye hoarser dams!
And call my love away.

Ye happy swains, with each a bride,
Were but the angel there,

While slighted maids despaired and sighed,
You'd court th' unequalled fair.

Dry up, ye dews! nor threatening hing,
To soil her best array:

Ye birds! with double vigour sing,
And urge my love away.

Welcome, sun! the dews are fled,
The lark has raised his song ;

The daisy nauntles up its head,

Why waits my love so long?

As flowrets fade, the pleasures bloom,
All hastening to decay:

The day steals on, and showers may come:
This instant haste away.

What now, ye fearful, cringing sheep! What meets your wondering eyes? What makes you 'neath the maples creep, In homaging surprise?

No ladies tread our humble green:

Ah! welcome wonders, hail!

I witness your mistaken queen

Is Patty of the Vale.

CHARLES WOLFE.

1791-1823.

SONG.

IF I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 't will smile again ;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own;

But there, I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

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