(ON SOME POEMS NOW WITHDRAWN).

Of all my favourite leaves these three
Appear to me
The wisest in their own degree,—
But my good arbitress would hear
No more, she stopt her ear,
And said, ‘That surely cannot be,
They are so sad, so hard to see,—
Philosophy is not poesy.’

No, not oftentimes, alas,
And yet the obverse ought to hold,
Ere the poet can be crowned with gold:
At least for once, pray, let them pass,

Indeed you ought,
They cost their maker so much thought:
Perhaps the lines are wingèd seeds!
‘Perhaps they are, but then of weeds!’
Of weeds? then weeds medicinal.
‘But still would I their flight recall,
Physic is only for our needs!
Let us to the garden go,
In the garden roses grow.’