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-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
From the streams and founts I have loosed the
chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ;
For me I depart to a brighter shore,
BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.
I look'd upon his brow,—no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,
As even o'er Despair
A spirit that could dare
He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He raised them haughtily ;
It could not wave on high
On many a torture nigh ;
I saw him once before ; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told
Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, · And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
But now he stood chained and alone,
The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;
The sword, which had defied
Came from that lip of pride ;
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;
Who throng'd to see him die.
A nation's funeral cry,
EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE. FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I
Had never waked thy burning chords ! . Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute ? I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ; It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
He spoke not when the others spoke,
His heart was all too full for praise ;
Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
In music, but unconsciously;
Crimsoned my cheek ; I felt warm tears
Consciousness, without hopes or fears,
Of a new power within me waking,
I loved him as young Genius loves,
When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light,
The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : : Life had no evil destiny
That, with him, I could not have borne !
Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
In Paradise, had he been near!
In tears, in bondage, by his side,
This world had power to give beside! !