Let me set my mournful ditty Thou wilt never come for pity, Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, Autumn evening, and the morn I love snow, and all the forms I love waves, and winds, and storms, I love tranquil solitude, As is quiet, wise and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess I love Love-though he has wings, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee Thou art love and life! O come, Make once more my heart thy home. TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING. HUS to be lost and thus to sink and die, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, A breathless awe, like the swift change Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, 'Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. THE FUGITIVES. I. HE waters are flashing, The hoar-spray is dancing- The whirlwind is rolling, The thunder is tolling, The forest is swinging, The minster bells ringing-- The Earth is like Ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion: Bird, beast, man and worm II. "Our boat has one sail, Who should follow us now,"- And she cried: "Ply the oar! And from isle, tower and rock, III. "And, fear'st thou, and fear'st thou? And, see'st thou, and hear'st thou? And, drive we not free O'er the terrible sea, One boat-cloak did cover The loved and the lover Their blood beats one measure, While around the lash'd Ocean, IV. In the court of the fortress Like a blood-bound well beaten, On the topmost watch-turret, And with curses as wild He devotes to the blast Of his name! A LAMENT. WIFTER far than summer's flight, As the night when sleep is sped, I am left lone, alone. The swallow Summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou. |