Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Its deep, impassioned gaze. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who slumbering lies. O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if, with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long! THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife A blessed child I rocked. |