Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, To catch the young Endymion asleep,Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch!—

III.

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be!
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named ;
And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee!—
It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee;
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,
And not divine the crescent on thy brows!—
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,
Behind those chestnut boughs,

Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon,

In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.

IV.

In nights far gone,—aye, far away and dead,-
Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye,—

I was thy wooer on my little bed,
Letting the early hours of rest go by,

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,
And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ;
For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,-
Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept

Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corselets

bright,

Their spears, and glittering mails;

And ever thou didst spill in winding streams
Sparkles and midnight gleams,

For fishes to new gloss their argent scales !—

V.

Why sighs?—why creeping tears?—why clasped hands?—

Is it to count the boy's expended dow’r?

That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? That young Delight, like any o'erblown flow'r, Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?—— Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, Thou art a sadder dial to old Time

Than ever I have found

On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r,
Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme.

VI.

Why should I grieve for this?—Oh I must yearn, Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,

Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,

Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry,

With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs

eterne,―

(Eternal to the world, though not to me,)

Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon,

When I am hearsed within,—

Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, That now she watches through a vapour thin.

VII.

So let it be -Before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful Orb! and so, whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,
And blessed thy fair face, O Mother mild!
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond,
And blend their plighted shadows into one :-
Still smile at even on the bedded child,
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

THE FORSAKEN.

THE dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,

And the living weep and sigh,

Over dust that once was love.

Once I only wept the dead,

But now the living cause my pain :

How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again?

My Mother rests beneath the sod,—
Her rest is calm and very deep:

I wish'd that she could see our loves,-
But now I gladden in her sleep.

Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turn'd to gray,
Once they were black and well beloved,
But thou art changed, and so are they!

The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,

Was ta'en with smiles,--but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee

291

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn ;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,—
True honour's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water'd since the world was born.

The world-it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy

Makes all things weep with me!

Come let us sit and watch the sky,

And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heav'n black with misery.

Why should birds sing such merry notes,