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Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Stanzas Written In Dejection Near Napi.ks.

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'HE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light

Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods,
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion—
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,

Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned—
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;

Others I see whom these surround—

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,

Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,

As I when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament—for I am one

Whom men love not,—and yet regret;
Unlike this day, which, when the sun

Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.


MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

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A Ballad Of Roncesvalles.

"THHOU hast not been with the festal throng

.*. At the pouring of the wine, Men bear not from the hall of song So dark a mien as thine! There 's blood upon thy shield, There 's dust upon thy plume, Thou hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom.'

'And is there blood upon my shield?

Maiden, it well may be!
We have sent the streams from our battle field
All darkened to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain
Midst our woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet—but not with rain,
Deep dyed—but not with wine.

'The ground is wet—but not with rain;

We have been in war array,
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain

Hath bathed her soil to-day.

I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles' Strait

'In the"gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait

There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!
There's many a fair young face
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!'

'Alas for love, for woman's breast,

If woe like this must be! Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest And a white plume waving free? With his proud quick-flashing eye, And his mien of kingly state, Doth he come from where the swords flashed high In the Roncesvalles' Strait?'

• In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait

I saw, and marked him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate
When the pride of manhood fell.
But it is not youth that turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns
Till it rests among the slain.1

'Thou canst not say that he lies low,

The lovely and the brave?
Oh none could look on his joyous brow

And think upon his grave l Dark, dark perchance the day Hath been with valour's fate; But he is on his homeward way From the Roncesvalles' Strait.

'There is dust upon his joyous brow,

And o'er his graceful head,
And the warhorse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed.
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.'

The Homes Of England.

THE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England—

Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song

Or childhood's tale is told;
And lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England,

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

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