By the grey woods,-by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholyIn each nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the PastShrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer byWhite-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth-and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion By a route obscure and lonely, TO ZANTE. FAIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, At sight of thee and thine at once awake! No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes ! No more! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more Thy memory no more! Accursed ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante! HYMN. AT morn-at noon— -at twilight dim— Darkly my Present and my Past, |