INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense, Of white-robed Scholars only-this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! 5 Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die; 10 TO A SKYLARK. ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! [To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain, ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 5 10 A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 15 Of harmony, with instinct more divine: Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! WHY ART THOU SILENT? IS THY LOVE A PLANT. [TO A DISTANT FRIEND.] WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant— 5 The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine— 10 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! The floating clouds their state shall lend Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motion of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake-The work was done- She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 The memory of what has been, ` And never more will be. WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!-We must run glittering like a brook 5 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, The homely beauty of the good old cause 10 |