II. To * * * * * *

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes;
Yet must I dote upon thee, - call thee sweet.
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

I. To My Brother George
II. To * * * * * *
III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison
IV.
V. To a Friend who sent me some Roses
VI. To G. A. W
VII.
VIII. To My Brothers
IX.
X.
XI. On first looking into Chapman's Homer
XII. On leaving some Friends at an early Hour
XIII. Addressed to Haydon
XIV. Addressed to the Same
XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket
XVI. To Kosciusko
XVII. - Keats