I struggle towards the light-but oh, While yet the night is chill,

Upon time's barren, stormy flow,

Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE.

(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)

TEN years

and to my waking eye

Once more the roofs of Berne appear;

The rocky banks, the terrace high,

The stream

and do I linger here?

The clouds are on the Oberland,

The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;

But bright are those green fields at hand,

And through those fields comes down the Aar,

And from the blue twin-lakes it comes,
Flows by the town, the church-yard fair;
And 'neath the garden-walk it hums,
The house!—and is my Marguerite there?

Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,
Quick through the oleanders brush,

And clap thy hands, and cry: 'Tis thou!

Or hast thou long since wander'd back,
Daughter of France! to France, thy home;
And flitted down the flowery track
Where feet like thine too lightly come?

Doth riotous laughter now replace
Thy smile; and rouge, with stony glare,
Thy cheek's soft hue; and fluttering lace
The kerchief that enwound thy hair?

Or is it over?-art thou dead?—
Dead!—and no warning shiver ran
Across my heart, to say thy thread
Of life was cut, and closed thy span !

Could from earth's ways that figure slight
Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight

Fail from earth's air, and I not know?

Or shall I find thee still, but changed,
But not the Marguerite of thy prime?
With all thy being re-arranged,
Pass'd through the crucible of time;

With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned,

And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture-anything-retain'd
Of all that was my Marguerite's own?

I will not know! For wherefore try,
To things by mortal course that live,
A shadowy durability,

For which they were not meant, to give?

Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain,

So on the sea of life, alas!

Man meets man-meets, and quits again.

I knew it when my life was young;

I feel it still, now youth is o'er.

-The mists are on the mountain hung, And Marguerite I shall see no more.

THE STRAYED REVELLER.

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE. EVENING.

A Youth. Circe.

The Youth

FASTER, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,

Lean'd up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek;

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,

I held but now.