of woe,

And storied urns record who rests below;

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his master's own,

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth;

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

O man! thou feeble tenant of an

hour,

MAID OF ATHENS. MAID of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Σώη μού, σάς ἀγαπῶ,*

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each gean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Σώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Σωη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,

Can I cease to love thee? No!
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Σῶη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

* Zóe moú, sás ágapō, My life, I love you.

Here are the Alpine landscapes which

create

A fund for contemplation;-to admire

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date: But something worthier do such scenes inspire:

Here to be lonely is not desolate, For much I view which I could most desire,

And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

O that thou wert but with me! - but I grow

The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret;

There may be others which I less may show;

I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet

I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my altered eye.

I did remind thee of our own dear lake,

By the old Hall which may be mine

I can reduce all feelings but this one; And that I would not;for at length

I see

Such scenes as those wherein my life begun

The earliest -even the only paths for me.

Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,

I had been better than I now can be; The passions which have torn me would have slept;

I had not suffered, and thou hadst not wept.

With false Ambition what had I to do? Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;

And

And

yet they came unsought, and
with me grew,

made me all which they can
make-
-a name.

Yet this was not the end I did pursue; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. But all is over- I am one the more | To baffled millions which have gone before.

And for the future, this world's future may

From me demand but little of my care;

I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were;

My years have been no slumber, but the prey

Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have filled a century,

Before its fourth in time had passed

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers),

And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek, And- but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,

And but for that chill changeless
brow,

Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous
hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant's power;

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first last look by death revealed!

[From The Dream.]

SLEEP.

OUR life is twofold! Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,

They take a weight from off our waking toils,

They do divide our being; they be