Ye are fled, sweet, vague, and vain, I have left a feverish pillow An image bears along! Look where I will, I only see In vain my heart remembers I wish to love thee less-and feel THE DANCING GIRL. A LIGHT and joyous figure, one that seems As if the air were her own element; Begirt with cheerful thoughts, and bringing back Flashed their bright cymbals and their whitest hands Were homes where Naiades met some graceful youth Beneath the moonlit heaven-all this is past; Ours is a darker and a sadder age; Heaven help us through it!—'tis a weary world, The dust and ashes of a happier time. DIRGE. LAY her in the gentle earth, Where the lily bendeth. Lay her there, the lovely one! As the rain of April lendetn. From the midnight's quiet hour O'er the sweetest human flower That was ever loved. But she was too fair and dear For our troubled pathway here; Heaven, that was her natural sphere, Has its own removed. SCENES IN LONDON. LIFE in its many shapes was there, The busy and the gay : Faces that seemed too young and fair To ever know decay. Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride, Led forth its glittering train; And poverty's pale face beside Asked aid, and asked in vain. The shops were filled from many lands- Yet 'mid life's myriad shapes around, The bugle's wailing breath. They played a mournful Scottish air, That on his native hill Had caught the notes the night winds bear From weeping leaf and rill. "Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain Its warning music shed, Rising above life's busy train, In memory of the dead. · There came a slow and silent band They bore the soldier to his grave; By some dark vessel ploughed. A moment, and all sounds were mute, You heard the soldier's measured foot, The gloves were laid upon the bier, The helmet and the sword; The drooping war-horse followed near, Slowly-I followed too-they led To where a church arose, Deep as their own repose. Green trees were there-beneath the shade Of one was made a grave; The weary and the brave. They fired a volley o'er the bed Of an unconscious ear; The birds sprang fluttering overhead, All left the ground; the bugles died Away upon the wind; Only the tree's green branches sighed O'er him they left behind. Again, all filled with light and breath, THE ALTERED RIVER. THOU lovely river, thou art now Pale flowers wreathe upon thy brow, Only the morning sun hath leave Cool shade the willow branches weave The lilies are the only boats Upon thy diamond plain, The swan alone in silence floats Around thy charmed domain. The moss-bank's fresh embroidery, With fairy favors starred, Seems made the summer haunt to be Of melancholy bard. |