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Sapless, grey, and ivy dun,
Now the last day of many days,
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,
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sint 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,
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 pot 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,
Our mortal Nature's strife.
For still it seemed 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 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,
And clearer than the day
In which the massy forests grew,
As in the upper air,
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,
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
Within an Elysium air,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
Than calın in waters seen.
SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Swift be thy flight !
Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Come, long sought !
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on tower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me?
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,
No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-
Come soon, soon!
PONT A MARE, PISA.
The sun is set ; the swallows are asleep;
The boats are fitting fast in the grey air ; The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.
There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town,