This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal. Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Perhaps from me debarr'd; And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard. And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste To listen to my song. Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or, when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye To Helice in northern sky; And there upon the rock reclined With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound in magic spell Him[1] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And, bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign.