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Mocked at the speculation they had owned.
If it be death, when there is felt around
A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare,
And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair
From the scalp to the ancles, as it were
Corruption from the spirit passing forth,
And giving all it shrouded to the earth,
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness : in our night
Of thought we know thus much of death, — no more
Than the unborn dream of our life before
Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore.
The marriage feast and its solemnity
Was turned to funeral pomp
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up ; nor they
Who loved the dead went weeping on their way
Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise
Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes,
On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain,
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again.
The lamps which half extinguished in their haste
Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned feast,
Showed as it were within the vaulted room
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom
Had past out of men's minds into the air.
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there,

- the company

Friends and relations of the dead, - and he,
A loveless man, accepted torpidly
The consolation that he wanted not,
Awe in the place of grief within him wrought.
Their whispers made the solemn silence seem
More still some wept, ...
Some melted into tears without a sob,
And some with hearts that might be heard to throb
Leant on the table, and at intervals
Shuddered to hear through the deserted halls
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame
Of every torch and taper as it swept
From out the chamber where the women kept;
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold
Of pleasures now departed; then was knolled
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived,
And finding death their penitent had shrived,
Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon
A vulture has just feasted to the bone.
And then the mourning women came.

THE DIRGE.

Old winter was gone
In his weakness back to the mountains hoar,
And the spring came down

From the planet that hovers upon the shore

Where the sea of sunlight encroaches
On the limits of wintry night ;-
If the land, and the air, and the sea

Rejoice not when spring approaches,
We did not rejoice in thee,

Ginevra !

She is still, she is cold

On the bridal couch,
One step to the white death-bed,

And one to the bier,
And one to the charnel - and one, O where?

The dark arrow Aed
In the noon.

Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled,
The rats in her heart
Will have made their nest,
And the worms be alive in her golden hair,
While the spirit that guides the sun,
Sits throned in his flaming chair,

She shall sleep.

EVENING.

PONTE A MARE, PISA.

I.

The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;

The bats are flitting fast in the grey air ; The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,

And evening's breath, wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.

II.

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;

And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town.

III.

Within the surface of the fleeting river

The wrinkled image of the city lay,
Immovably unquiet, and for ever

It trembles, but it never fades away ;
Go to the ...
You, being changed, will find it then as now,

IV.
The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut

By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud,
Like mountain over mountain huddled — but

Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, And over it a space of watery blue, Which the keen evening star is shining through.

TO-MORROW.

I.

WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?

When young and old and strong and weak,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, –
In thy place — ah ! well-a-day !
We find the thing we fled — To-day.

II.

If I walk in Autumn's eyen

While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring's soft heaven, -

Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,
Summer's clouds, where are they now?

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