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Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, That swells its little breast, so full of song, Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, The face, the form divine, the downcast look Contemplative! Behold! her open palm Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd


Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye! With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds, And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! I pass forth into light-I find myself Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods), Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock That overbrows the cataract. How bursts The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills Fold in behind each other, and so make A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, by With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. How solemnly the pendent ivy mass Swings in its winnow all the air is calm.

For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now
With stedfast gaze and unoffending eye,
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
Een as that phantom-world on which he gazed,
But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:
And suddenly, as one that toys with time,
Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm
la broken-all that phantom-world so fair ́
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,
Por youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes!

The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return! And lo! he stays;
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror; and behold
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there,
And there the half-uprooted tree-but where,
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd
On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!
Homeward she steals through many a woodland


Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
Tl sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
Bbold'st her shadow still abiding there,
The Naiad of the Mirror!

Not to thee,

wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale:
Gloomy and dark art thou-the crowded firs
Sare from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:
Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

This be my chosen haunt-emancipate
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,
I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.
Lo stealing through the canopy of firs,
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves
Dart off asunder with an angry sound,
How soon to reunite! And see! they meet,
Each in the other lost and found: and see

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light,

Rises in columns; from this house alone,
Close by the waterfall, the column slants,

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,
And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog-
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths.

A curious picture, with a master's haste
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries
Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried
On the fine skin! She has been newly here;
And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch- ·
The pressure still remains! O blessed couch!
For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun,
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!
Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!
More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song!
O child of genius! stately, beautiful,
And full of love to all, save only me,
And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,
Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
On to her father's house. She is alone!

The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit-
And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
To keep the relic? 't will but idly feed
The picture in my hand which she has left,
Let me haste!
The passion that consumes me.

She cannot blame me that I follow'd her;
And I may be her guide the long wood through




You loved the daughter of Don Manrique?

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Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,
Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
Met my advances with impassion'd pride,
That kindled love with love. And when her
Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
My suit with insult, and in memory

Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,
Her blessings overtook and baffled them!

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead."
I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them
sire,Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice,
Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?

But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.


Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza


Blessings gather round her!

Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden-
The night ere my departure to the army,

I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd
The purpose and the substance of my being,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,

I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers-
Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower
I now will go-all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her—
Say nothing of me-I myself will seek her-
Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye-

[EARL HENRY retires into the wood

SANDOVAL (alone).

O Henry! always strivest thou to be great By thine own act-yet art thou never great 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,

Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
Was the sole object visible around me.
No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
No leaflet stirr'd;-yet pleasure hung upon
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.
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

To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled-
I heard her heart beat-if 't were not my own.


A rude and scaring note, my friend!


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,

And shape themselves: from Earth to Heaven they


As though they were the pillars of a temple,
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor!
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
Is fled the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins'



MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped, Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soil'd beneath the common tread, Far from thy protecting spray!

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

Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unshelter'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

O give me, from this heartless scene released,
To hear our old musician, blind and gray
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I-kiss'd),
His Scottish 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

TAN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or hes the purple evening on the bay


MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

Sittest behind those virgins gay, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look, Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple truth,
But no true love in his eye.

Lothing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:

With a musing melancholy

Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms:

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring, And embathe in heavenly light.


No cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain
Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.

Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer
My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands'
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,

Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.


THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd

One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergiss 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
Has 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!



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


Death 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


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.



WHY need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here

A lovely convalescent;
Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I With their sweet influencing.



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.



"TIS 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!


Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, t


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 sol But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny war 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!


SAD lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain 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 strove 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 confess'd,
Sickness 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 Sech strength that he would bless his pains and live.


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

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why That asking look? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where? Beloved! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved beforeSo deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought—
O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamor's hour.



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!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requests to weep! Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence

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
Resign 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




GOD be with thee, gladsome Ocean!

How gladly greet I thee once more! Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild Physician, "Those briny waves for thee are Death!" But my soul fulfill'd her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

Fashion's pining sons and daughters, That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares Nature, if they die?

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

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