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He came like a dream in the dawn of life,

He fled like a shadow before its noon;
He is gone, and my peace is turned to strife,
And I wander and wane like the weary moon.

O sweet Echo, wake,

And for my sake
Make answer the while my heart shall break!

But heart has a music which Echo's lips,

Though tender and true, yet can answer not, And the shadow that moves in the soul's eclipse Can return not the kiss by his now forgot;

Sweit lips ! lie whù hath

On my desolate path
Cast the darkness of absence, worse thari death!

Indian. And if my grief should still be dearer tome Than all the pleasure in the world beside, Why would you lighten it?Lady.

I offer only
That which I seek, some human sympathy
In this mysterious island.

The Indian. Ob} my friend,
My sister, my beloved! What do I say?
My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know whether
I speak to thee or her. Peace, perturbed heart!
I am to thee only as thou to mine.

The passing wind which heals the brow at noon,

strike cold into the breast at night,
Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most,
Or long soothe could it linger. But you said
You also loved ?

Lady. Loved! Oh, I love. Methinks This word of love is fit for all the world, And that for gentle hearts another name Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns. I have loved.

The Indian. And thou lovest not? If so Young as thou art, thou canst afford to weep.

Lady. Oh! would that I could claim exemption From all the bitterness of that sweet name. I loved, I love, and when I love no more Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me, The embodied vision of the brightest dream, Which like a dawn heralds the day of life; The shadow of his presence made my world A paradise. All familiar things he touched, All common words he spoke, became to me Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, As terrible and lovely as a tempest; He came, and went, and left me what I am. Alas! Why must I think how oft we two Have sate together near the river springs, Under the green pavilion which the willow Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain, Strewn by the nurslings that linger there, Over that islet paved with flowers and moss, W bile the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crimson snow,

Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the pine,
Sad prophetess of sorrows not our own.

Indian. Your breath is like soft music, your words are
The echoes of a voice which on my heart
Sleeps like a melody of early days.
But as you said-

Lady. He was so awful, yet
So beautiful in mystery and terror,
Calming me as the loveliness of heaven
Soothes the unquiet sea : -and yet not so,
For he seemed stormy, and would often seem
A quenchless sun masked in portentous clouds ;
For such his thuughts, and even his actions were ;
But he was not of them, nor they of him,
But as they hid his splendour from the earth.
Some said he was a man of blood and peril,
And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips.
More need was there I should be innocent,
More need that I should be most true and kind,
And much inore need that there should be found one
To share remorse, and scorn, and solitude,
And all the ills that wait on those who do
The tasks of ruin in the world of life.
He fled, and I have followed bim.

February, 1822.



THERE was a youth, who, as with toil and travel,
Had grown quite weak and grey before his time;
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel

Which burned within him, withering up his prime
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
Not his the load of any secret crime,

For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same ;-
Not his the thirst for glory or command

Bafiled with blast of hope-consuming shame;
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast,
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame,

Had left within his soul their dark unrest :
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he, -Philosophy's accepted guest.

For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone;
Of nought in heaven or earth wasche the slave.

What sorrow deep, aud shadowy, and unknown, Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind !If with a human sadness he did groan,

He had a gentle yet aspiring inind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed,
And such a glorious consolation find

In others' joy, when all their own is dead:
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,
And yet, uplike all others, it is said,

That from such toil he never found relief;
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief.

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride ;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

But like a steward iu honest dealings tried
With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise,
His riches and his cares he did divide.

Fearless he iras, and scorning all disguise,
What he dared do or think, though men might start,
He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes ;

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his many friends—all loved him well-
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart,

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