Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—

Any where, any where
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,

Picture it-think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,-kindly,-

Smoothe, and compose them

And her eyes, close them

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,

"TWAS in that mellow season of the year

When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves

Till they be gold,-and with a broader sphere

The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;

When more abundantly the spider weaves,

And the cold wind breathes from a chiller clime ;-
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,

Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,

To think how the bright months had spent their prime.

So that, wherever I address'd my way,

I seem'd to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,

And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet ;-
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat

To some unwasted regions of my brain,
Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,
And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

It was a shady and sequester'd scene,
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,
Planted with his own laurels ever green,
And roses that for endless summer blow;
And there were fountain springs to overflow
Their marble basins,—and cool green arcades
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,
With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,
Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,
Some crimson-barr'd ;-and ever at a wish
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win
My changeable regard,-for so we doom
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

And there were many birds of many dyes,

From tree to tree still faring to and fro,
And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes,
And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow,
Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow,
Besides some vocalists without a name,
That oft on fairy errands come and go,

With accents magical ;—and all were tame,
And pecked at my hand where'er I came.

And for my sylvan company, in lieu
Of Pampinea with her lively peers,
Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew,
All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears,
For she was gracious to my childish years,
And made me free of her enchanted round;
Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears,
And plants her court upon a verdant mound,
Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.