Imágenes de páginas
[ocr errors]



“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.



SWIFTER far than summer's flight -
Swifter far than youth's delight -
Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come and gone
As the wood when leaves are shed,
As the night when sleep is fled,
As the heart when joy is dead,

I am left alone, alone.


The swallow summer comes again
The owlet night resumes his reign-
But the wild-swan youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou.
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow

Sunny leaves from any bough.


Lilies for a bridal bed -
Roses for a matron's head
Violets for a maiden dead-

Pansies let my flowers be:
On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.



Oh, world ! oh, life ! oh, time !
On whose last steps I climb

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; When will return the glory of your prime ?

No more — 0, never more !


Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more — O, never more !



THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more

In which its heart-cure lies :

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs

Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.


Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn content ;

Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown

Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent.

The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears, — its evil good.


Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend ! know that I only fly

Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.


When I return to my cold home, you ask

Why I am not as I have ever been.

You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,Of wearing on my brow the idle mask

Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.


Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot

With various flowers, and every one still said,

« She loves me loves me not."
And if this meant a vision long since fled -

« AnteriorContinuar »