ΤΟ

I HEED not that my earthly lot
Hath-little of Earth in it-
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:-
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my
fate
Who am a passer by.

1829.

ΤΟ

THE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips and all thy melody

Of lip-begotten words—

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined

Then desolately fall,

O God! on my funereal mind.

Like starlight on a pall—

Thy heart-thy heart!—I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day

Of the truth that gold can never buy— Of the baubles that it may.

TO THE RIVER

FAIR river in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow

Of beauty-the unhidden heart—
The playful maziness of art

In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks-
Which glistens then, and trembles—
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies—

His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

SONG.

I SAW thee on thy bridal day—
When a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:

And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be)

Was all on Earth my aching sight

Of Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—
As such it well may pass―

Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,

When that deep blush would come o'er thee,

Though happiness around thee lay,

The world all love before thee.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

THY Soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stoneNot one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude

Which is not loneliness-for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again

In death around thee-and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night-tho' clear-shall frown—
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish-
Now are visions ne'er to vanish-

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more-like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze-the breath of God-is still—
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy-shadowy-yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token-

How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

1827.