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Shiter in sunshine, but his feeble heart

Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye!

With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,

Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour That swells its little breast, so full of song,

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds, Suzug above me, on the mountain-ash.

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, I pass forth into light-I find myself Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,

Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods), The face, the form divine, the downcast look

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock Contemplative! Behold! her open palm

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts Prisses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests

The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,

Fold in behind each other, and so make That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile

A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, stealth

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now

The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, With siedlast gaze and unoffending eye,

Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes

How solemnly the pendent ivy mass Del vous to the soul, but fleeting, vain,

Swings in its winnow : all the air is calm. Een as that phantom-world on which he gazed,

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah! see,

light, The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks

Rises in columns ; from this house alone, The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,

Close by the waterfall, the column slants, Lichnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells :

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? And suddenly, as one that toys with time,

That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, Batters them on the pool! Then all the charm

And close beside its porch a sleeping child, la troken-all that phantom-world so fair

His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dogVanwhes, and a thousand circlets spread,

One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,

Holds loosely its small handful of wild-fowers, Par youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. The stream will soon renew ils smoothness, soon

A curious picture, with a master's haste 7e visions will return! And lo! he stays ;

Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,

Peel'd from the birchen bark! Divinest maid! And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more

Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold

Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried Esb wild-llower on the marge inverted there,

On the fine skin! She has been newly here ; Arch there the half-uprooted tree-but where,

And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-. O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd

The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!

For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, lioneward she steals through many a woodland Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long

Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel ! Which he shall seek in vain. Il-fated youth!

Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids ! 1 day by day, and waste thy manly prime

More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed, In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,

The Lesbian woman of immortal song! Til sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou

O child of genius! stately, beautiful, B bold'st her shadow still abiding there,

And full of love to all, save only me,
The Naiad of the Mirror!

And not ungenile e'en to me! My heart,
Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
Not to thee,

On to her father's house. She is alone!
O wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale:
Glo my and dark art thon—the crowded firs

The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit

And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Sup from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well :

Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn

To keep the relic? 'I will but idly feed Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! Os thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

The picture in my hand which she has left,

She cannot blame me that I follow'd her ; This be my chosen haunt-emancipate

And I may be her guide the long wood through I man passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, ired me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. L' stealing through the canopy of firs,

THE NIGHT-SCENE.
Hr* fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
lule of the river, whose disparted waves

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
Dit off asunder with an angry sound,
How soon to reunite! And see! they meet,
Euch in the other lost and found : and see You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ?

maze

SANDOVAL.

EARL HENRY.

Loved ?

Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,

A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

SANDOVAL

Did you not say you woo'd her?

SANDOVAL

EARL HENRY.

SANDOVAL.

EARL HENRY.

SANDOVAL (with a sarcastic smile).

Once I loved No other than as eastern sages paint,
Her whom I dared not woo!

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,

And woo'd, perchance, Relapses into bliss. One whom you loved not !

EARL HENRY.

Ah! was that bliss

Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?

Oh! I were most base, For suddenly, impatient of its silence, Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.' Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she

I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them Met my advances with impassion'd pride, That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd

I swore, and with an inward thought that seern'd The golden circlet in his hand, rejected

The purpose and the substance of my being, My suit with insult, and in memory of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,

I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers Her blessings overtook and baffled them!

Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance

I now will go all objects there will teach me Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her

Say nothing of me-I myself will seek herAnxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment But Oropeza

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye-

[EARL HENRY retires into the wood Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage,

SANDOVAL (alone). Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

O Henry! always strivest thou to be great Into the gloomiest covert of the garden

By thine own act-yet art thou never great The night ere my departure to the army,

But by the inspiration of great passion. She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And to that covert by a silent stream,

And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they Which, with one star reflected near its marge,

stand, Was the sole object visible around me.

As though they were the pillars of a temple, No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;

Built by Omnipotence in its own honor! So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit No leaflet stirr'd ;-yet pleasure hung upon

Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand,
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!
A little further on an arbor stood,
Fragrant with flowering trees—I well remember
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
Their snow-white blossoms made—thither she led
me,

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,
To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled-
I heard her heart beat—if 't were not my own. WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS O

EARL HENRY

HER INNOCENCE.

SANDOVAL.

A rude and scaring note, my friend !

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!

EARL HENRY.

Oh! no!
I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love :
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,
Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us :
We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vow'd to die for her:
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!

Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,
Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wafted high

To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die.

His Scoutish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the tedded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light 74 AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE.

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, Sittest behind those virgins gay,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,

But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Soft the glances of the youth,

Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ;

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands' But no sound like simple truth,

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye.

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature uiter; birds or trees, Lothing thy polluted lot,

Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence !

Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze, With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe : With a musing melancholy

THE KEEPSAKE. Inly arm’d, go, Maiden! go.

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, Mother sage of Self-dominion,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Is the memory of past folly.

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes, Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, Soon with renovated wing

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Shall she dare a loftier flight,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* l'puard to the day-star spring,

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
And embathe in heavenly light.

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved),

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Na cold, nor stem, my soul ! yet I detest

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Haves the proud Harlot her distended breast,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Ia mtricacies of laborious song.

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.

To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
Pre when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
Barts in a squall—they gape for wonderment.

From off her glowing cheek, she sale and stretch'd Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! šomful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

• One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve

inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,

the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergist Pranles accordant scandal in her *r.

mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
llas made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray :

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her? Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing!

TO A LADY.

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL

WITH FALCONER'S “SHIPWRECK."

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ;
Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;
Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,

And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers

roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the

name Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form’d! this work to

thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

'T is sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

This feel I hourly more and more : There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

TO A YOUNG LADY.

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

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ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, tl

Dove, The Linnet and Thrush, say, “ I love and I love!" In the winter they 're silent--the wind is so strong What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud sou But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny wan

weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here,

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'erhead the sky.lark shrills

THE VISIONARY HOPE. Sad lot, to have no Hope!: Though lowly kneeling He sain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He sirove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confessid, Sckness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams, Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

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THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

A FRAGMENT.

ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER

LONG ABSENCE,

OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life, Yea, in that very name of Wife!

UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO

BATHE.

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requesis to weep!

Nor bless I not ihe keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

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Of transient joys, that ask no sting,

From jealous fears, or coy denying;

But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then

Renign the soul to love again. A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain

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Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures Revisit on thy echoing strand :

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