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“Our boat has one sail,
And she cried: “Ply the oar;
O'er the sea.
And from isle, tower, and rock,
From the lee.
“And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ?
I and thou ?”
One boat-cloak did cover
Soft and low ;
THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay,
Tempts and then flies ; What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is !
Friendship too rare ! Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair ! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy and all Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay Whilst
that change ere night
Make glad the day; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou—and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.
Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed;
Yes, I was firm—thus wert not thou ;My baffled looks did fear yet dread
To meet thy looks—I could not know How anxiously they sought to shine With soothing 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 groan, Hiding from many a careless eye The scorned load of agony.
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
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 thou 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 thou feel'st for me.
FAR, far away, 0 ye
Halcyons of Memory!
Ye come again.
Vultures, who build your bowers