And sacred domes, each marble-ribbed roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers
Of solitary wealth. The tempest-proof
Pavilions of the dark Italian air

Are by its presence dimmed-they stand aloof,
And are withdrawn-so that the world is bare:
As if a spectre, wrapped in shapeless terror,
Amid a company of ladies fair

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror Of all their beauty,-and their hair and hue, The life of their sweet eyes with all its error, Should be absorbed till they to marble grew.

GOOD-NIGHT.

"GOOD-NIGHT?" No, love! the night is ill Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How were the night without thee good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,—
Then it will be good night.

The hearts that on each other beat

From evening close to morning light Have nights as good as they are sweet, But never say "good-night."

TIME LONG PAST.

LIKE the ghost of a dear friend dead
Is time long past.

A tone which is now for ever fled,
A hope which is now for ever past,
A love so sweet it could not last,

Was time long past.

There were sweet dreams in the night
Of time long past:

And, was it sadness or delight,
Each day a shadow onward cast

Which made us wish it yet might last-
That time long past.

There is regret, almost remorse,

For time long past.

'Tis like a child's belovèd corse

A father watches, till at last
Beauty is like remembrance cast
From time long past.

SONNET.

YE hasten to the dead: what seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess

All that anticipation feigneth fair—

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest

guess

Whence thou didst come and whither thou

mayst go,

And that which never yet was known wouldst

know

Oh! whither hasten ye, that thus ye press With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,

Seeking alike from happiness and woe

A refuge in the cavern of grey death?

O heart and mind and thoughts! what thing do

you

Hope to inherit in the grave below?

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821.

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

I. "ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead!
Come and sigh, come and weep!"-
"Merry Hours, smile instead,

For the Year is but asleep :
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping."-

2. “As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your Mother in her shroud.”—

3. "As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude Days
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours; she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

4. "January grey is here.

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier;

March with grief doth howl and rave;
And April weeps :-but O ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers."

1st January 1821.

TO-NIGHT.

1. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave

Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,
Swift be thy flight!

2. Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought,

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out.
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long-sought!

3. When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee;