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THE SUNSET.

There late was One within whose subtle being,
As light and wind within some delicate cloud
Tai ades amid the blue noon's burping sky,
Genius and youth contended. None may know
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath
Fail, like the trances of the summer air,
When, with the Lady of his love, who then
First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
He walked along the pathway of a field
Which to the east a boar wood shadowed o'er,
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun had sunk, but linės of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers
And the old dandelion's hoary beard,
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods-and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Letween the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead.-
" Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth,
"I never saw the sun ? We will walk here
To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me.”

That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep-but when the morning came
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived on-in truth I think
ller gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not die, but lived to tend

Her aged father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 'tis to be oulike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by soine subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;-
Her eyelashes were torn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead - so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veios
And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

* Inheritor of more than earth can give,
Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Whether the dead find, oli, not sleep! but rest,
And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were-Peace!"
This was the only moan she ever made.

1816.

SONG,

ON A FADED VIOLET.

The odour from the flower is gone,

Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour froin the flower is flown,

Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm

With cold and silent rest.

N

I weep-my tears revive it not !

I sigh-it breathes no inore on me; Jis mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.

LINES TO A CRITIC.

Honey from silk-worms who can gather,

Or silk from the yellow bee? The grass may grow in winter weather

As soon as hate in me,

Hate men who cant, and men who pray

And men who rail like thee; An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.

Or seek some slave of power and gold:

To be thy dear heart's mate; Thy love will move that bigot cold,

Sooner than me thy hate.

A passion like the one I prore

Cannot divided be;
I hate thy want of truth and love

How should I then hate thee?

GOOD NIGHT.

Good night! ah-! no; the hour is illi

Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its fight? Be it not said, thought, understood,

Then it will be good night.

"To hearts which rear each other move

From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good night.

TO-MORROW.

WHERE art thou, beloved, To-morrow ?

Whom young and old, and strong and weak Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,-
In thy place- ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled-To-day.

DEATH.

They die--the dead return not-Misery

Sits rear an open grave and calls them over, A Youth with boary hair and haggard eye

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly called-they all are gone!
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,

This most familar scene, my pain-
These tombs aloue remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more!

Thou wilt not be consoled I wonder not! For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spo! Was even as bright and calm, but transitory, And now tly hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;

This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs alone remain,

A LAMENT.

O World! O life! O time !
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before ;
When will return the glory of your prime !

No more-Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night.
A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter boar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more -Oh, never more!

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