From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river—girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening my sweet pipings.

How, my dear Mary,—are you critic
(For vipers kill, though dead) by
That you condemn these verses I h
Because they tell no story, false
What, though no mice are caught by

Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets’ food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,

What men gain fairly—that they sho
And children may inherit idleness,
From him who earns it’—This is un
Private injustice may be general g
But he who gains by base and armed

Dar’€™st thou amid the varied mult
To live alone, an isolated thing?
To see the busy beings round thee
And care for none; in thy calm sol
A flower that scarce breathes in t

Thy look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life’s too bitter bowl;
No grief is mine, but that alone

I rode one evening with Count Mad
Upon the bank of land which breaks
Of Adria towards Venice: a bare s
Of hillocks, heap’d from ever-shif
Matted with thistles and amphibiou

SWIFTLY walk o’er the western w
   Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,—
Where, all the long and lone dayli
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear

I am drunk with the honey wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth bo
The bats, the dormice, and the mol
Sleep in the walls or under the sw

49
Go thou to Rome,—at once the Para
The grave, the city, and the wilde
And where its wrecks like shattere
And flowering weeds, and fragrant