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But when night comes, a chaos dread
Ou the dim starlight then is spread,

And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm. May 4th, 1818.




O Mary dear, that you were here
With your brown eyes bright and clear,
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate ;
Voice the sweetest ever heard !
And your brow more
Than the

Of this azure Italy.
Mary dear, come to me soon,
I am not well whilst thou art far ;
As sunset to the sphered moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, beloved, art to me,

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O Mary dear, that you were here !

The Castle echo whispers" Here!” Este, September, 1818.


Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould ?

Blossoms which were the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.

Forget the dead, the past? O yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,
Meinories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.


Within the silent centre of the earth
My inansion is; where I have lived insphered
From the beginning, and around my sleep
Have woven all the wondrous imagery
Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world;
Infinite depths of unknown elements
Massed into one impenetrable mask;
Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins
Of gold, and stone, and adamantine iron.
And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven
I kave wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds,
And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns
In the dark space of interstellar air.


The fiery mountains answer each other;
Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone;

The tempestuous oceans awake one another,
And the ice-rocks are shaken round winter's zone

When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown.

From a single cloud the lightning flashes,
Whilst a thnusand isles are illumined around,
Earthquakeis trampling one city to ashes,
A hundred are shuddering and toitering; the sound

Is bellowing underground.

But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare,
And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp;
Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy stare
Makes blind the volcanos; the sun's bright lamp

To thine is a fen-fire damp.

From billow and mountain and exhalation
The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast;
From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation,
From city to hamlet, thy dawning is cast,-
And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night

In the van of the morning light.


Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed ;

Yes, I was firm-thus wert not thou ;Myóbaffled looks did fear. yet dread

To meet thy looks-I could not know How anxiously they sought to shine With suothing pity upon mine.

To sit and curb the soul's mute rage

Which preys upon itself alone; To curse the life which is the cage

Of fettered grief that dares not groar, Hiding from many a careless eye The scorned load of agony.

The [

Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,

] thou alone should be, To spend years thus, and be rewarded,

As thou, sweet love, requited me When none were near-Oh! I did wake From torture for that moment's sake.

Upon my heart thy accents sweet

Of peace and pity fell like dew On flowers half dead ;-thy lips did meet

Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw Their soft persuasion on my brain, Charming away its dream of pain.

We are not happy, sweet ; our state

Is strange and full of doubt and fear; More need of words that ills abate;

Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thou and me.

Gentle and good and mild thou art,

Nor can I live if you appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart

Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be
To hide the love you feel for ine.


There was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven:
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Where por aun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,

Each a gem engraven.
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pive

A lake's blue chasm.


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

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