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Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;

And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,

The heaviest plummet of despair can go

But whence that sudden check? that fearful start?

He hears an uncouth sound

Anon his lifted eyes

Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A Shape of more than mortal size

And hideous aspect, stalking round and round!
A woman's garb the phantom wore,
And swiftly swept the marble floor-
Like Auster whirling to and fro,
His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skins the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Manalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd,
Sweeping-vehemently sweeping-

No pause admitted, no design avow'd!
"Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!"
Exclaim'd the Chieftain-"let me rather see
The coronal that coiling vipers make;

The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,
And the long train of doleful pageantry
Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt;
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn,

And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call,

Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid,

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent!

Your Minister would brush away

The spots that to my soul adhere;

But should She labour night and day,
They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations, and that look
Which no philosophy can brook!

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim!

O matchless perfidy! portentous lust

Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade,
Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust!
Shudder'd the walls-the marble city wept-
And sylvan places heav'd a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept,
As he had fall'n in magnanimity;

Of spirit too capacious to require

That Destiny her course should change; too just
To his own native greatness to desire

That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust.
So were the hopeless troubles, that involved
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.
Releas'd from life, and cares of princely state,
He left this moral grafted on his Fate:-
"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends,
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends,
Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."


IN Brugès town is many a street
Whence busy life hath fled;
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet

The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade

Flung from a convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.

When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seem'd doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,-for English words
Had fall'n upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire

Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave
Cloth'd with innocuous fire;

But, where we stood, the setting sun
Show'd little of his state;
And, if the glory reach'd the Nun,
"Twas through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly borne,

If even a passing Stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.

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Such feeling press'd upon the soul, A feeling sanctified

By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the Maiden at my side:
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gaily o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?



GENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings

Might bear thee to this glen,

With faithful memory left of things

To pencil dear and pen,

Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine,

And all his majesty—

A studious forehead to incline

O'er this poor family.

The Mother-her thou must have seen,

In spirit, ere she came

To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;

An image, too, of that sweet Boy
Thy inspirations give-

Of playfulness, and love, and joy,

Predestined here to live.

Downcast, or shooting giances far,
How beautiful his eyes,

That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguil'd;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,
That exquisite Saint John.

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