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Sapless, grey, and ivy dun,
Round stones that never kiss the sun,
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.

Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise Memory, and write its praise,
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled:
For the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow.

We wandered to the Pine Forest

That skirts the Ocean's foam, The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep,

The smile of Heaven lay.

It seemed as if the day were one

Sent from beyond the skies, Which shed to earth above the sun

A light of Paradise.

We paused amid the Pines that stood

The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude,

With stems like serpents interlaced.

How calm it was-tlie silence there

By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller by her sound

The inviolable quietness ;

The breath of peace we drew, With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.

It seemed that from the remotest seat

Of the white mountain's waste, To the bright flower beneath our feet,

A magic circle traced ;

A spirit interfused around,

A thinking silent life,
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal Nature's strife.

For stillit seemea the centre of

The magie circle there, Was one whose being filled with love

The breathless atmosphere.

Were not the crocusses that grew

Under that ilex tree,
As beautiful in scent and hue

As ever fed the bee?

We stood beside the pools that lie

Under the forest bough, And each seemed like a sky

Gulphed in a world below;

A purple firmament of light,

Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,

And clearer than the day

In which the massy forests grew,

As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any waving there.

Like one beloved, the scene had lent

To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament

With that clear truth expressed.

There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,

Aud through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Under a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above

Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green.

And all was interfused beneath

Within an Elysium air,
An atmosphere without ab:eath,

A silence sleeping there.

Until a wandering wind crept by,

Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye

Blots thy bright image out.

L

With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ;

Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight !
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost:
I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Every thing almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me
What difference! but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,

And like light can flee,
But, above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee
Thou art love and life! O come,
Make once inore my heart thy home.

TO CONSTANTIA,

SINGING.

Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,

Perchance were death indeed !-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, whick 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,
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change

Uuseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,

Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven

By the inchantment of thy strain,

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