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imagination the poets of an earlier generation would seem as near as the versifiers of his own day. That he should have chosen from the past those models whose example was most needed in order to infuse a new life into English poetry proves of course the justice of his poetic instinct. In fixing upon the great writers of the Elizabethan age he anticipated, as we have already observed, the taste of a succeeding generation, and it is only to be regretted that he did not absolutely confine himself to these nobler models of style. Unfortunately however his own intellectual tendency towards mysticism, found only too ready encouragement in the prophetic vagueness of the Ossianic verse, and we may fairly trace a part at least of Blake's obscurer manner to this source.
J. COMYNS CARR.
[From Poetical Sketches.]
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Thou fair-haired Angel of the Evening,
How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride ;
Who in the sunny beams did glide.
And blushing roses for my brow;
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
And Phæbus fired my vocal rage ;
And shut me in his golden cage.
Then laughing sports and plays with me,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away ;
And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave : Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold ; Oh, why to him was 't given
Whose heart is wintry cold ? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet ; When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempest beat ; Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
Memory, hither come
And tune your merry notes ;
Your music floats,
I'll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet's song,
The day along ;
The wild winds weep,
And the night is a-cold,
And my griefs enfold :
Lo! to the vault
Of paved heaven
My notes are driven ;
Like a fiend in a cloud
With howling woe After night I do crowd
And with night will go ; I turn my back to the east From whence comforts have increased ; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.
TO THE MUSES.
Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun that now
From ancient melody have ceased ; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the Earth, Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth ; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry:
That bards of old enjoyed in you !
The sound is forced, the notes are few.
[From Songs of Innocence.]
Piping down the valleys wild,