Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars ; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes, the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. Responds, as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings ; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long!" THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife A blessed child I rocked. |