The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies

Forgive, if somewhile I forget,

In woe to come, the present bliss.

As frighted Proserpine let fall

Her flowers at the sight of Dis,

Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss.

The sunniest things throw sternest shade,

And there is ev'n a happiness

That makes the heart afraid!

Now let us with a spell invoke

The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud Lapp'd all about her, let her rise

All pale and dim, as if from rest

The ghost of the late buried sun

Had crept into the skies.

The Moon! she is the source of sighs,

The

very face to make us sad;

If but to think in other times

The same calm quiet look she had,

As if the world held nothing base,

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad;

The same fair light that shone in streams,

The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad;

For so it is, with spent delights

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.

All things are touch'd with Melancholy,
Born of the secret soul's mistrust,

To feel her fair ethereal wings

Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust;
Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust,

Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.

O give her, then, her tribute just,

Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life

That sounds with idiot laughter solely;

There's not a string attun'd to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.

SONNET

ON MISTRESS NICELY, A PATTERN FOR

HOUSEKEEPERS.

Written after seeing Mrs. Davenport in the character, at Covent Garden.

SHE was a woman peerless in her station,

With household virtues wedded to her name;

Spotless in linen, grass-bleach'd in her fame,

And

pure

and clear-starch'd in her conversation;

Thence in my Castle of Imagination

She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame,

To keep all airy draperies from shame,

And all dream furnitures in preservation :

There walketh she with keys quite silver bright,

In perfect hose, and shoes of seemly black,

Apron and stomacher of lily-white,

And decent order follows in her track:

The burnish'd plate grows lustrous in her sight, And polish'd floors and tables shine her back.

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Hues of all flow'rs that in their ashes lie,
Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,
Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,
Like exhalations from the leafy mould,

Look here how honour glorifies the dead,

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!

Such is the memory of poets old,

Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate;

Now they are laid under their marbles cold,

And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create;

But God Apollo hath them all enroll'd,

And blazon'd on the very clouds of fate!

SONNET

TO FANCY.

MOST delicate Ariel! submissive thing,

Won by the mind's high magic to its hest,
Invisible embassy, or secret guest,