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 thee and me. Gentle and good and mild thou art, LINES. FAR, far away, O ye Vultures, who build your bowers Withered hopes on hopes are spread; SONG. RARELY, rarely, comest thou, Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day "Tis since thou art fled away. How shall ever one like me 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 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, Autumn evening, and the morn I love snow, and all the forms I love waves, and winds, and storms, 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, But, above all other things, Spirit, I love thee; Thou art love and life! O come, Make once more my heart thy home. A FRAGMENT. As a violet's gentle eye Until its hue grows like what it beholds; Over the western mountain it enfolds, As a strain of sweetest sound Wraps itself the wind around, Until the voiceless wind be music too; As aught dark, vain and dull, Basking in what is beautiful, Is full of light and love. ΤΟ MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth? Art thou not over-bold? What! leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? |