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Buch lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

With mountain winds, and babbling springs,

And mountain seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes

Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth ;—Tame sacrifice

To a fond faith! still dost thou pine ?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands ?

Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope

On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles.

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted ; The glory of the moon is dead ;

Night's ghost and dreams have now departed; Thine cwn soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Drean not to chase ;—the mad endeavour

Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return;
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first

glow,

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to

mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine, Which thou too feel'st; yet I alone deplore : Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar; Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood Above the blind and battling multitude ; In honoured poverty thy voice did weave Songs consecrate to truth and liberty ;Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be STANZAS.—APRIL, 1814.

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of

even : Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness

soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene

lights of heaven. Pause not ! the time is past ! every voice cries,

Away! Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's un

gentle mood : Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not

entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth ; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and

come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy

mirth. The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float

around thine head, The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath

thy feet But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost

that binds the dead,

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ero

thou and peace may meet.

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own

repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is

in the deep; Somo respite to its turbulence unresting ocean

kitows; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its

appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms

flee Which that house and heath and garden made

dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep

wusings, are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of

one sweet smile.

LINES.

Tue cold earth slept below,
Above the cold sky shone,

And all around
With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The breath of night like death did flow

Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,

The birds did rest

On the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack

Which the frost had made between.

Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;

As a fen-fire's beam

On a sluggish stream Gleams dimly—so the moon shone there, And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair,

That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ;
The wind made thy bosom chill;

The night did shed

On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky

Might visit thee at will.

November, 1815.

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