Musings in many moods

Preface

. The present volume contains the major portion of the author's poetical productions, written on many occasions, and at different periods of life. This will account for the various sentiments expressed. The author does not make any pretensions to transcendentalism. He only claims the merit of understanding what he intends to convey ; and he ventures to think that in very few instances will his language be found obscure, or difficult to interpret. He has, for the last seven years, been afflicted with rheumatic arthrites, which has been, and continues, so severe as to deprive him, partially, of the use of his limbs, and debar him entirely from locomotion. He is thus reduced to the helplessness of childhood, combined with the acute pain of a confirmed valetudinarian, and his volume of life will be henceforth either monotonous, or blank.

In fact his state of health is such as to lead him to believe that this book is the last which he shall offer, and he, therefore, takes this opportunity of respectfully thanking his friends and the public for past and present favours. Whatever may be his after-lot, one feeling will ever be his — that of deep and earnest gratitude towards those who came to cheer and aid him in the dark hours of affliction and adversity. Whether he shall ever appear before the public again must be left to the decree of Him who rules and governs all. He can never hope to be as he was formerly, but cheerfully submits himself to His will whose wisdom is unimpeachable ; thankful to live, and yet content to die. CONTENTS.

PAGE Ourselves and Others 9 The Guest of God 13 Nothing More 16 Helvellyn 17 The Children of Eternity 18 Birth-day Reflections 20 The Dying Girl 22 The Poet's Home 23 Repinings 27 Oh, well I love my gentle maid 28 To my First-Born 30 Come, love, and sing, in thy tones sweet and low 33 A Christmas Sonnet 34 My Dwelling-Place 35 The Castle in the Air 38 Summer 40 Winter Rhymes for the Crimea 41 Bread 43 Our Home at Eve 44 Night and Day 45 The Wandering Angel 48 The Maiden's Grave 64 A Song for the Queen 68 Violets 70 My Lady's Chamber 72 The Pledge 73 PAGE Early Love 74 Canzonet 76 One Hour of Musing 77 A Heart Song 79 The Good Man's Sepulchre ... 80 To 82 The Song of the Kettle 83 Love's Day and Night 85 A Valentine 87 The Troubadour 88 Sbakspere 92 The Violet and the Rose 94 Life 97 The Sleep-Guest 97 The Princess and the Poet ... 100 Books 102 The Gray Hair 105 Native Land 108 Fortune's Frowns 110 When the stars are brightly shining 112 To a Stream 113 Marie 114 Marie's Death 115 The Minstrel's Lot... 116 Song 120 The Sire's Farewell VI PAGE War 123 I fade apace 'neath a foreign sky 123 To a Poet's Child 124 Dreams of a Convict 125 My Birth-PIace 128 Past and Future 129 May-Day Song 131 Love and Flowers 132 The Departure 133 Come and Buy 134 One in a Grave 136 Dirge 138 Blighted Hopes 139 The Song of Death 141 The Brave Old English Admiral 143 Passing Faces 144 The Garland of Life 146 The Alphabet of Death 147 The Children's Ditty 148 Morning 119 My Son Harold 149 Serenade 151 The Lady Beitha 152 I'll tell my Mother 153 The Death of Raglan 155 The Eagle and the Rose 156 Napoleon 157 The Flower of France 159 Hidden Grief 161 The Shakspere Festival 162 The Voice of the Wind 165 The Shadow of Death 165 Valedictory Lines 168 On seeing an Autograph Letter of Milton's .. 171 Darkness and Silence 171 Sonnet. — Summer Evening Rain 174 I sit beside Her in the Hall... 174 To Marian 176 PAGE The Songs of England 178 The Poet's Counsel 181 To my Wife 183 The Destruction of Sodom ... 185 Serenade 187 The Outcast 188 Rich and Poor 191 Fire Fancies 193 Two Sonnets 195 A Morning Dream 196 The Christmas Good Night ... 197 An Appeal for the Artisan ... 199 The Gin Palace 201 Zaidee 204 The People's Prayer 205 The Little Sprite 207 The Offering 209 Manchester 210 Visions 211 Oh! dost thou remember those Moments of Gladness? 213 Margaret 214 Christmas Musings 216 The Ayrshire Maid 219 The Flight of Time 220 Linlithgo Palace 222 Sleepless Fancies 224 The Restoration of Charles the Second 224 Evening 227 Youth's Return 227 The Lake of Intemperance ... 229 Albert and Geraldine 232 A Prologue 236 The Maiden's Fate 238 To a Little Boy 240 To a Little Girl 241 Faith and Hope 242 On a Dead Friend VI 1 PAGE The Angel and the Fiend 245 Brandy and Water 247 The Shade of Shakspere 249 Sonnet to 251 Life and Death 252 Infancy and Age 256 Dreaming and Waking 258 Tears and Smiles 259 The Brothers 261 The Oriel Window 262 Where shall the Dead find Rest ? 264 Forgiveness 264

Youth and Age 266 My Country 268 Redemption 269 To the Evening Star 270 Oh, think'st thou I remember not? 270 Fantasies 271 The Golden Day of Youth is gone 272 The Guardian Angel 273 A Legend of the Heart 274 The Father on the Loss of a Twin-Child 277 Lines in Illustration of an Unfinished Design 279 The Poet's Love 281 A Haunt of Childhood 283 Thou art Fair as the Morning's first Beam 284 A Father's Prayer 284 Oh!

Lady, let me woo Thee... 286 Lovers' Tokens 287 The Child and Mirror 288 The Meeting and Parting 290 The Death Dream 292 I Love Thee 295 On the Anniversary of Burns 297 PAGE The Dying Boy 297 Birds are Heard in Day's Bright Hours 299 I saw Thee and Blessed Thee 300 Tributary Stanzas 301 English Scenery 302 The Broken Spell 307 Lines on a Portrait 308 A Sunset Scene 310 To a Young Poetess 312 A Daughter to her Dead Sire 312 To , on her Marriage... 314 When I am laid 'neath the Church-yard Stone 316 To my Infant Sister 317 The Last Adieu 319 A Country Walk 320 Th' Bailies 321 The World of Flowers 323 The Early Lost 324 A Fair Face Haunts my Solitude 325 Sonnet to 327 The Poet's Fate 327 Musings and Memories 329 Thoughts in Absence 332 A Ballad 333 On Visiting Wordsworth 335 Love Rhymes 335 Oh! well do I remember 337 Gordale Scar 338 Sir Osric 340 Beauty's Morn and Noon 345 The Farewell 346 Who Loves not Beauty? 347 Dreams of the Dead 348 Town and Country 350 We have Met 352 The Wreath 353 Night Thoughts vm PAGE Hope 378 The Maiden's Flight 379 On the Death of a Young Lady 380 The Sibyl 382 To Margaret 383 Love Doubts 384 The Prison Van 384 My Heart is with the Dead... 386 The Lover's Lay 387 Oh! my Heart is Sad with Dreaming 388 Vindicatory 388 Sleeping and Waking 390 Lines on a Tomb 392 The Dream 393 PAGE Nature 356 The Arab's Lament 357 Prologue 358 Chetham College and Manchester Cathedral 360 The Minstrel's Farewell to his Love 364 The Bible 366 The Warrior's Death 366 To the Bells 368 Lovers' Eyes 369 The Lady of my Heart 370 To an Infant 373 Winter Scene 374 The Captive Knight OURSELVES AND OTHERS. 0 wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us!

It wad 'fra monie a blunder free us, And foolish notion : What airs iu dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion! Burns. What a scene of self-delusion is this busy world of ours, Where no man truly estimates his failings or his powers, Where we think upon each good we do with soul-exultant pride, And believe that our most trifling acts to greatness are allied ! How we smother up our vices with a sweet and healing balm, And recall our peccadilloes with a conscience hush'd and calm ! If our neighbour turns to folly, oh ! how soon we find it out ! Of his monstrous culpability we entertain no doubt. If, through ignorance, or accident, he gets into a maze, They are no excuses valid for the error of his ways. B We condemn the man at once with a savage, virtuous frown — Our duty to the world requires that we should put him down.

But if we ourselves should go astray, oh, the world has done us wrong — We have struggled hard, but triumph goes not always with the strong; We are victims of misfortune, we are stricken and oppress, But the heart sits lightly on the throne erected in our breast. So we gird ourselves with fictions, and our self-love builds a wall, Which we think conceals our errors, though they're visible to all ; And the small end of the glass, which made our faults minute in size, Unto our neighbour's eye is turn'd, and, lo ! it magnifies. How soon we cease to think upon the wild days of our youth, And bid our children lead a life of soberness and truth. When we were young we never, no, we never went astray, But were obedient, meek, and good, and full of love alway. What a comfort and a blessing to our parents we have been!

But now the world is alter'd quite, entirely changed the scene ; 'Tis positively shocking, and we get quite in a rage With the rising generation of this sad, degenerate age. Our sons are men before the beards have dawn'd upon their chin ; Our daughters prate of husbands now before their teens begin. How very much superior our conduct used to be! — But those we talk to of our youth were then not born to see. How glibly do we hold discourse on features, style, and talk! How pertly do we criticise our neighbour's dress and walk! There is so much that's ludicrous in all we see and hear, It really quite amazes us that some abroad appear. Oh, if they could but see themselves one moment with our eyes, They from themselves would turn away with loathing and surprise. And yet they look complacently upon the mirror's face, And ugliness seems loveliness, and gawkiness seems grace.

Poor fools ! we all are blinded by our precious love of self, That maketh fascination in a hideous, grinning elf. We cannot see our own defects — no reason can convince, The vilest twists of face and form can never make us wince. We scorn or pity myriad faults that glare before our eyes, And never dream that we have faults and crimes of deeper dyes — Frailties and guilts long known to us, until they have become Our cherish'd friends, and in our hearts have made a pleasant home. Then we go to church or chapel, with a prayer-book in our hand, And we feel ourselves quite moral, and we look supremely bland ; With our neckcloth tied so smugly, and the bonnet of our wife Trimm'd so neatly, yet so costly — oh, we lead a holy life ! Our pew hath velvet linings, and the texture is of silk, And we kneel on springing cushions, and we feel as mild as milk ; And we throw around demurely our most envious, sneering eyes, And are convinced there is no other pew so grand or great in size ; MOOnS.

And we speak of those poor wretches who've not that day been to church, And we think that most decidedly they will be in the lurch; And we feel we've done our duty when we've utter'd sundry groans, And have made all the responses in most solemn nasal tones. It is moral, it is proper, and we go with stately air, And we kneel unto our Maker, and transfer to Him each care. Then we enter in our dwelling with a proud and measured tread, And fancy that the grace of God is all about us shed. We blame the poor, we close the door, the fire is blazing high; We strive to think the greatest sin is reckless charity. Oh, yes, all men must work or starve — it matters not a jot — To aid would only sow the seeds of beggary in their lot! Draw close the chair, stir up the fire, it really is unwise That thoughts of want and misery on such a day should rise.

Take off the scales, oh, God of all, that blind our mortal eyes, And in our hearts let charity and love of kind arise ; Make us to see our many faults and great shortcomings plain, And none of us would then be found presumptuous and vain. But even this the prayer is vain now offer 'd up by me — Thou knowest best, Thou doest best — our Guide and Saviour be! THE GUEST OF GOD. AN EASTERN STOEY. All was astir in Tangiers, for the Caid That day held revel, and a feast was made In honour of his daughter's nuptials : the bride Had left his halls in pageantry and pride. The court was fill'd with merry-makers gay, A splendid crowd that kept high holiday ; And, 'mid the pauses of the music's sound, Quaint jests and repartees in mirth went round. Now he of Tangiers had a bosom friend, The Caid Mahommed, who around did send Glances of haughtiness and proud disdain.

Soon he espied, amid the gorgeous train, A man of aspect meek, and meanly clad. Gall'd that so poor a man should be made glad, 'Mid the assembled guests of high estate, He sternly order'd him without the gate. The man obey'd not, and, with savage frown, Mahommed rudely hurl'd the stranger down. That night an oven-keeper, kind though poor, Had gone to rest and barr'd his humble door, When a low knocking from without was heard, And from his rest at once the man bestirr'd, And ask'd, with accents mild, who there abode : A voice thus answer'd him " The guest of God." He deem'd 'twas some poor mendicant, and said " You are welcome." Then the poor guest he led Within his home, and straightway forth he brought The remnant of his supper, and besought The guest to eat, when he had warm'd the food, For hunger only call'd such viands good.

When the poor beggar ceased for food to crave, Water was brought that he his hands might lave, And on a matting rude repose he found, Whilst his host lay beside him on the ground. At morning's dawn the entertainer's eyes Glanced round his dwelling, and with some surprise He found no guest was there. Musing he said " Business perchance required him, and he sped Away, disturbing not; or it may be He hath a modest shame of poverty." So he raised up the mat, and, sore afraid, He found that gold beneath the cloth was laid. Then far removed from every prying eye The careful artisan the coin put by, Lest it behind unwittingly was left, And the poor man should be of all bereft; Or, if obtain 'd from some unlawful hoard, It might at once with honour be restored. Some time pass'd on, and then an order came, A summons dread, in the great Sultan's name, Bidding the baker and the Caid repair To Fez straightway, to meet the monarch there.

Guards placed the men before the palace-gate, And bade them there the Sultan's coming wait. Soon he appear'd, and on his brow of gloom The Caid Mahommed read his coming doom. In accents that the trembling Caid appall'd, The feast of Tangiers to his mind he call'd, And ask'd him of the poor and wretched man Whom he had driven forth with savage ban. "Him did'st thou kick and strike. The foot and hand Uplifted then no more shall strike or stand. The limbs that me offended then are mine, With all that appertains to thee and thine : Those rebel branches now shall sever 'd be — A just reward for inhumanity ! " Then, when the baker heard that doom severe, His heart beat loud with apprehensive fear, And to himself, in faltering tones, he said " If the Caid's limbs he take, he will my head ! " So at the Sultan's feet himself he cast, Craving for grace and mercy for the past.

Thus spake the Sultan : — " Son, you need not fear, You gave the guest of God a welcome cheer — The rich man thrust him rudely from his door, But you relieved the outcast and the poor, Shared with the wandering wretch your wholesome bread And yielded up your coarse and homely bed; A resting-place the unknown stranger found, Whilst you reclined on cold and matless ground, Withstanding that which competence ensures — Now ask, and all you wish for shall be yours." The man return'd no answer — in his eyes The Sultan read his joy and his surprise, And gave him more than his desires had claim 'd The Caid return'd to Tangiers, poor and maim'd And after-records of his nation trace The curse of poverty clung to his race. The man of charity, with modest pride, The Sultan caused unto his home to ride, Honour'd, exalted, meek, though richly dress'd, Of all the cruel Caid's great wealth possess'd. most, host!

Humble in heart his fellows pass'd him by, And saw his wealth with an unenvious eye : The thriving men, who once contemn'd him Now smiling said " There goes the Sultan's NOTHING MORE. In a valley fair I wander'd, O'er its meadow-pathways green, Where a singing brook was flowing, Like the spirit of the scene; And I saw a lovely maiden With a basket brimming o'er With sweet buds, and so I ask'd her For a flower, and nothing more. Then I chatted on beside her, And I praised her hair and eyes, And, like roses from her basket, On her cheeks saw blushes rise ; With her timid looks down glancing, She said "Would I pass before?" But I said that all I wanted Was a smile, and nothing more. So she shyly smiled upon me, And I still kept wandering on ; What with blushing, smiling, chatting, Soon a brief half hour was gone.

Then she told me I must leave her, For she saw their cottage-door, But I would not till I rifled Just a kiss, and nothing more. And I often met that maiden, At the twilight's loving horn-, With the summer's offspring laden, But herself the dearest flower. When she ask'd me what I wish'd for, Grown far bolder than before, With impassion'd words I answer'd 'Twas her heart, and nothing more ! Thus for weeks and months I woo'd her, And the joys that then had birth Made an atmosphere of gladness Seem encircling all the earth. One bright morning at the altar A white bridal dress she wore ; Then my wife I proudly made her, And I ask for nothing more ! HELVELLYN. Helvellyn, mighty mountain ! when I stood Upon thy height, and cast my gaze around, Awed by the look of majesty profound Which Nature wore, though in her wildest mood The varied wonders of tarn, rock, and fell, Fill'd my whole being with a nameless spell.

I did not stand in utter solitude, For close beside me was a treasured friend, Whose spirit silently, like mine, did brood On God's great marvels. Now that friend is dead. And the high soul, that to his lips did lend An intellectual eloquence, hath fled — Fled, let me hope, to that immortal sphere Where thou and all of earth as specks appear. THE CHILDREN OF ETERNITY. The past is ever with us, as we speak The present vanishes and is the past; Vainly in all around us do we seek For aught of happiness that long will last; The transient joys we taste, of dying tell, And pleasure comes but with its passing-bell. The dead are with the past; they are indeed The glorious children of eternity, From earth and all its daily sorrows freed, Destined unmoved in their high sphere to be, And shedding downwards pure and holy light, To keep their memories hallow'd, fresh, and bright.

They live with us; their images are shrined Fadeless for ever in our inmost hearts ; No varying phase of life within the mind Can alter them — they are to us as parts Of that which is immortal and unchanged, And from our souls can never be estranged. The world we move in can affect them not; No petty doubts, no heart-distracting fears Can ever dim and darken o'er their lot; They live with us in lustre, save when tears Come dew-like o'er the vision, and the light Of their dear memory dazzles human sight. Those dwelling with us, dear howe'er they be, Is there not daily something to destroy The happy current of our destiny, — Something to break and stem the course of joy, And cause between us words and thoughts that jar, Trifling perchance, but tending life to mar? The loved of other years have pass'd away, Like summer sunshine, from the wintry time We know that they were fashion'd of the clay, Yet bore the impress of a brighter clime; They pass'd from earth to heavenly bliss and light, And left to us the winter and the night.

Their virtues and their love upon us shine, Their human failings seem all faint and dim : We view them ever chasten 'd and divine, And picture them as of the cherubim : Their attributes of truth and grace endure ; Their faults are lost, or shadow'd, and obscure. Do they look down on us? Oh, do their eyes Behold our course of sorrow and of care ? Do their ears hear our many anguish'd sighs, — Our. bitter mutterings of deep despair ? And do they still, though denizens of heaven, Plead for the souls that they would hope forgiven ? Oh, let us strive with fervent faith to pray That we, like them, a haven glad may gain, That all our deeds from earthly day to day May cause those angels of our world no pain ; That they may gaze upon this scene of death, And hail with joy the passing of each breath.

BIRTH-DAY REFLECTIONS. Written Jan. 20, 1855. This day its round hath run — the by-gone year Hath died away in gloom and stormy tears, And the cold skies above this time of cheer Have spread a mantle dark as are my fears. My soul, reflecting back the louring heaven, Hath worn an aspect dull and desolate; Despair hath master'd me, and I seem driven Unnerved and powerless on the shoals of fate. No Christmas-tree hath branch 'd above my board, And caused glad thoughts amid its boughs to rise, No gift of love, no tempting hidden hoard Hath been produced to bless my children's eyes. The carols that were wont deep bliss to make Within my breast at hallow'd Christmas time, Have sail'd my heart to throbs of joy t'awake — Sad memories marr'd the music and the rhyme. For me the year springs not to cheerful birth, The stranger looks on me with glances cold ; I seem a shepherd lost and lorn on earth, With lambs that soon may have not food nor fold Another link — the heaviest link of all — - Grieving I see appended to the past, And, if I pledge the day, 'twill be in gall, For bitter, bitter thoughts around I cast.

Bereft of energy and strength of limb, I feel the helpless misery of my lot, And tears I cannot check mine eyes will dim, For loved ones need the things which I have not. I cannot rush into the throng of life, And cleave my path in its tumultuous tide ; I cannot with my fellows share the strife Where man may win his way, or fall with pride. Feeble and worn with never-ceasing pain, My days and nights in vain regrets are spent; My limbs seem manacled with torturing chain, That keeps me ever prison'd up and pent. The change of seasons brings no change to me, For clouds are ever heavy on my heart ; Azure and sunshine all around may he, But unto me no gladness they impart. I know my own demerits— oh, great God! If I must suffer, to Thy all-wise will Teach me to bow, and kiss the chastening rod — As day the night, so good may follow ill.

THE DYING GIRL. And thou art dying, beautiful and young, When smiles of joy should on thy lips be playing, And thou shouldst bound with sportive glee along, Where merry maids are in the meadows Maying. The spring sun shineth through thy window-pane, The pleasant breeze with balmy breath is sighing, And thou canst hear the feather'd minstrel's strain, In that still room where thou art pale and dying. Why is thy spirit summon'd to the skies, Untried by years, unvisited by sorrow? Why art thou call'd, ere yet thy gentle eyes Have fear'd to look upon the coming morrow? Thy cheek hath never paled with anxious care. Thy heart hath never throbb'd with guilty sadness ; Even as thyself thy course was pure and fair, Hallow'd by love, and cheer'd with looks of gladness Why didst thou leave thine own immortal heaven, For earthly guests to cherish and caress thee ?

Why unto us wert thou, sweet spirit, given, And call'd away when we had learn'd to bless thee? Why wert thou fashion'd lovely to the sight? Why were thine eyes with tender radiance streaming? Why didst thou come, young being of delight, To fade like mirage on the pilgrim gleaming? Selfish and weak ! — why should we wish thee here ? Pass to thy home, unspotted, happy spirit ; Hasten on blissful wing to that glad sphere Where thou wilt glory evermore inherit. Mingle and dwell among the angel-band, But, oh ! while stars beneath thy path are burning, Think thou at times upon our sinful land, And plead for those whose gaze is upwards turning. THE POET'S HOME. Paetner beloved, my true and constant wife. Sick grows my heart, and tears o'ercharge mine eyes, When I at times, amid my care-fraught life, Beflect that thou dost share my toils and sighs Yet thy dear presence doth them lighter make — ■ Would that my fate were happier, for thy sake.

Poets are dreamers, visionary men, Whose fancies, flitting ever through the brain, Crowd, like wing'd bees with honey, to the pen — That fairy wand, 'mid hours of care and pain, Still conjures up unto the raptured view Scenes bright and glorious, everything but true. Fantastic elves that haunt the poet's mind, When waves his feathery sceptre, haste away, And o'er the regions of the cloud and wind Those revellers do hold despotic sway ; Creating domes and turrets, halls and towers, And silver founts, and rose-besprinkled bowers. Ah ! would that I possess'd the earthly heaven Those elves have oft brought to my yearning mind Would that to me such home of bliss were given, That I might leave the world of gain behind : Turn thee, my love, and on the picture look, Which I have sketch'd to place in Nature's book.

I would not have a proud and stately pile, Rearing its walls of stone unto the skies ; No pomp or state my dwelling should defile Humble alike in structure and in size ; No burly menial should attend its door, To shame his master, and affright the poor. I'd have a cottage-home embower'd in trees, Like modest merit ever in the shade ; My minstrels blithe should be the birds and bees, And 'gainst the wall the plant which doth not fade, The loving ivy evermore should be — Type of her love who ever clings to me. Not distant far a tiny stream should stray, Prattling, like childhood, 'mid the summer-hours, Dancing in joy along its devious way, And kissing banks bedeck'd with fragrant flowers ; And in the night unto mine ear should creep Its murmurs low, and lull to balmy sleep. And thou, my boy, thy father's pride and care, At morn should rush into the meadows gay, Drinking the freshness of the taintless air, And bounding on in wild and happy play, Whilst I would follow thee with earnest gaze, And smile to see thy careless, elfish ways.

Thy sisters, too, should fondly round me cling, Buoyant and laughing, in the glow of health, Singing by fits like merry birds of spring, And gathering hoards of bright and scented wealth With cheeks of bloom and joy-illumined eyes ; Gemming their hair with many a perfumed prize. Stored should my garden be with choicest flowers, Trees many-arm'd should branch above my head, And I would wander, in the noon-tide hours, Where leafy gloom upon my path was shed ; A rustic chair should fill some quiet nook, Where I might sit, companion 'd by a book. And I would have one spirit-haunted room, Fill'd with the thoughts of great and glorious men, Those godlike minds which have outlived the tomb, And shine as stars above a gloomy fen, Cheering our hearts with pure and holy light — The beacon-fires by which we steer aright.

Dyed should its casement be with many a stain, Limning the features of th' illustrious dead ; And every sunbeam shining through the pane Should shed its glory on a hallow'd head; So that I could not look upon the skies, Unless I gazed through some immortal eyes. c Shakspere, the famed and mighty king of thought ; The heaven-seeing Milton, though to earth all blind ; Byron, who held both earth and heaven as nought — A comet rushing through the realms of mind ; Spiritual Shelley, lofty-soul'd, though meek ; And sweet-voiced Keats, with pale consumptive cheek. Wordsworth the worshipp'd, with his verse divine, And Barry Cornwall, prince of English song, Coleridge the dreamy, with his nervous line ; And luscious Moore, with thoughts in dazzling throng Leigh Hunt, the pleasant, gossiping away ; And Southey's patriot strain of youthful day.