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His heart with words,-but what his judginent

Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.

These verses are too sad
To send to you, but that I know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.


“Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere the stars were lit, or candles brought;

And I, who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked, “ Who is Aziola ?” How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,

No mockery of myself to fear and hate !

And Mary saw my soul, And laughed and said, “Disquiet yourself not,

'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”

Sad Aziola! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,
And fields and marshes wide-

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirred;

Unlike and far sweeter than they all :
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.



Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts :
History is but the shadow of their shame;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers, knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself! in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.


O WORLD, O life, O time!
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; When will return the glory of your prime ?

No more-oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter boar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more-oh, never more!


I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how ?
To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream;
The champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O beloved as thou art !

O lift me from the grass !
I die, I faint, I fail !
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas !
My heart beats loud and fast,
0! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.


The golden gates of sleep unbar

Where strength and beauty, met together, Kindle their image like a star

In a sea of glassy weather!
Night, with all thy stars look down;

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew :
Never smiled the inconstant moon

On a pair so true. Let eyes

not sce their own delight; Haste, swift hour, and thy flight

Oft renew.

Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her!

Holy stars, permit no wrong!
And return to wake the sleeper,

Dawn, -ere it be long.
O joy ! O fear! what will be done
In the absence of the sun!

Come along!


WHEN passion's trance is overpast.
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!

It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest—and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.

After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets re-appear ;
All things revive in field or grove
And sky and sea, but two, which movo
And form all others, life and love.

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