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And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag flowers, purple prankt with

And starry river buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Under the bowers

Where the Oceap Powers Sit on their pearled thrones,

Through the coral woods

Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones :

Through the dim beams

Which amid the streams Weave a nel-work of colour'd light;

And under the caves,

Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night:

Outspeeding the shark,

And the sword-fish dark, Under the ocean foam,

And up through the rifts

Of the mountain clifts, They pass'd to their Dorian home.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues, which in their natural bowers

Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours

Within my hand, -and then, elate and gay,
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it!-Oh! to whom?

And now from their fountains

In Enna's mountains, *Down one vale where the morning basks,

Like friends once parted

Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.

Ai sud-rise they leap

From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;

At noontide they flow

Through the woods below,
And the meadows of Asphodel;

And at night they sleep

In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;-

Like spirits that lie

In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
Pisa, 1820.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright: I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me—who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent streamThe champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, Beloved as thou art!

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The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling;
Come, months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey,
Let your light sisters play-
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day, This and the former poem were writt in at the request of a friend, to be inserted in a urama on the subject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before I'molus for the prize in music.

Speeded by my sweet pipinys. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,

With envy of my sweet pipings.

They from the throng of men had stepp'd aside,
And made their home under the green hill side.
It was that hill, whose intervening brow
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye,
Which the circumfluous plain waving below,
Like a wide lake of green fertility,
With streams and fields and marshes bare,
Divides from the far Apennines—which lie
Islanded in the immeasurable air.

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth, And of Heaven-and the giant wars,

And Love, and Death, and Birth,

And then I changed my pipings, — Singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed : Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed. All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood,

At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

« What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ?
If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idloness,
And of the miles of watery way
We should have led her by this time of day?»



Our boat is asleep in Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast,
And the oars and the sails ; but 't is sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of ils tether.

Never mind, - said Lionol, • Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see, The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return tv-night.List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scalters Dominic's long black hair, Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions.-, The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, The living breath is fresh behind, As with dews and sunrise fed, Comes the laughing morning wind;The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Scrchio's torrent fierce, Then flags with intermitting course, And hangs upon the wave, [ ] Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,Swift as fire, tempestuously It sweeps into the affrighted sea; In morning's smile its eddies coil, Jts billows sparkle, toss and boil, Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright.

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there ;
To tower, and cavern, and rift and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,
And the rocks above and the stream below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of acry gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprollid.

Day had awaken'd all things that be,
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee :
Fire-flies were quench'd on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim :
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill :
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.

The Serchio, (wisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove Ai Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death that lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling Al Arno's feet tribute of corn and winc, Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangied marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean,

July, 1821.

All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever knew or can be known;

And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire;Melchior and Lionel were not among those;


I. SUMMER was dead and Autump was expiring, Aud infant Winter laugh'd upon the land

· Pumpkin.

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Some say, there is a precipice

Where one vast pine is frozen fo ruin O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice

Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm, pursuing

That winged shape, for ever flics
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing

Its aery fountains.

None may



when nights are dry and clear, And the death dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller

Which makes night day: And a silver shape like his early love doth pass

Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,

He finds night day.

Tuere late was one within whose subtle being, As light and wind within some delicate cloud That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky, Genius and youth contended.

The sweetness of the joy which made his breath
Fail, like the trances of a summer air,
When, with the Lady of his love, who then
First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
He walk'd along tlie pathway of the field
Which to the east a hoar wood shadow'd o'er,
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun liad sunk, but lines of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers,
And the old dandelion's houry beard,
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods—and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead.-
« Is it not strange, Isabel, - said the youth,

I never saw the sun? We will walk here
To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me.»

A FRAGMENT. They were two cousins, almost like to twins, Except that from the catalogue of sins Nature had razed their love-which could not be But by dissevering their nativity. And so they grew together, like two flowers Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers Lull or awaken in their purple prime, Which the same hand will gather--the same clime Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see All those who love,-and who ever loved like thee, Fiordispina ? Scarcely Cosimo, Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow The ardours of a vision which obscure The very idol of its portraiture; lle faints, dissolved into a sense of love; But thou art as a planet sphered above, But thou art Love itself-ruling the motion Of his subjected spirit.-Such emotion Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May Ilad not brought forth this morn-your wedding-day.

That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep-but when the morning came
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived op-in truth I think
ller gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not dic, but lived to tend
Iler aged father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 't is to be unlike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;-
Her eye-lashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead-so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins
And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vex'd ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

A BRIDAL SONG. The golden gates of sleep unbar

Where strength and beauty met together, Kindle their image like a star

In a sea of glassy weather.
Night, with all thy stars look down,-

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,–
Never smiled the inconstant moon

• Inheritor of more than earth can give, Passionless calm, and silence unreproved, Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,

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