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I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone,

Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my


HYMN OF APOLLO. The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,

Curtain'd with star-enwoven tapestries,
From the broad moonlight of the sky,
Fanning the busy dreams from


eyes, Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd' with inward glory crown'd-

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,

I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filld with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear,

Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill

Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; All men who do or even imagine ill

Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might, Until diininish'd by the reign of night.

Some might lament that I were cold,

As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one

Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun

Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet.

December, 1818.

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers,

With their ethereal colours; the Moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers

Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Beaven may shine Are portious of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,

Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;

For grief that I depare they weep and frown : What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western islc?

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Liquid Peneus was flowing,

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

The light of the dying day, 1 This and the former poem were written at the request of a friend, to be inserted in a urama on the subject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Trolus 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,



my sweet pipings.

They from the throng of men bad 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,

east, unconscious of its tether.

---- Never mind,, said Lional, • Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and sec, The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-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 Serchio'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, Jis billows sparkle, toss and boil, Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright.

Like a

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 uproll'd.

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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-nies 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

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, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death that lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Ilad 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 At 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.

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


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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 flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing

Its aery fountains.

Some say, 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 dotlı pass

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

He finds night day.

There 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. None may know
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 the 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 had 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 spbered 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 on--in truth I think
ller gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
ller 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 subdest 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 slecp unbar

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

In a sea of classy 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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