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A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant

Stands yawning on the highway of the life Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt ;

Around it rages an unceasing strife Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky.

And many passed it by with careless tread, Not knowing that a shadowy Ľ ] Tracks every traveller even to where the dead

Wait peacefully for their companion new; But others, by more curious humonr led,

Pause to examine,-these are very few, And they learn little there, except to know That shadows follow them where'er they go.


The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies ; All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies ; What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is !

Friendship too rare !
Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair !
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy and all
Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day ; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou—and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.



My faint spirit was sitting in the light

Of thy looks, my love ;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon

For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's fight

Bore thee far from me ;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,

Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,

Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove

With the wings of care ;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,

Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,

It may bring to thee.


One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it,
One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear,

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?


I PANT for the music which is divine,

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,

Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,

I faint, till they wake again.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,

More, O more,-I am thirsting yet,
It loosens the serpent which care has bound

Upon my heart to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

As the scent of a violet withered up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake ; When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,

And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour few On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue

As one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of foaming, and sparkling and murmuring wine Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,

Invites to love with her kiss divine.

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