I passed from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,

A snare in every human path

Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,

Who daily scents his snowy wings

With incense of burnt offerings

From the most unpolluted things,

Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven

Above with trelliced rays from Heaven

No mote may shun-no tiniest fly-

The lightning of his eagle eye

How was it that Ambition crept,

Unseen, amid the revels there,

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love's very hair?

པག ས

TO

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see

The wantonest singing birds,

Are lips--and all thy melody

Of lip-begotten words

3

ΤΟ

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.