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Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.


I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight !
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.


I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms.

Every thing almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.


I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise and good;

Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.


I love Love - though he has wings,

And like light can flee,
But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee -
Thou art love and life !
Make once more my heart thy home.

O come,


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.



THE flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies. What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.


Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship how rare ! Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair ! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.


Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou - and from thy sleep

Then wake to weep.



Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.



“Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh,”

Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;

And I, who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked, “Who is Aziola ?” How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate :

And Mary saw my soul, And laughed, and said, “Disquiet yourself not;

'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”



Sad Aziola ! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side,

And fields and marshes wide,
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,

The soul ever stirred;
Unlike and far sweeter than them all.
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.

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