Withered hopes on hopes are spread;
Dying joys, choked by the dead,
Will serve your

beaks for prey
Many a day.

SONG.

RARELY, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!
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

Win thee back again ?
With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot
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

To a merry measure ;-
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,

And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Every thing almost
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,

And like light can flee,

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

Gazes on the azure sky, Until its hue grows like what it beholds ;

As a gray and empty mist

Lies like solid Amethyst,
Over the western mountain it enfolds,
When the sunset sleeps

Upon its snow.

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.

184

TO

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

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,
The last of the flock of the starry fold ?
Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead ?

How! is not thy quick heart cold?

What spark is alive on thy hearth?

How! is not his death-knell knolled ?

And livest thou still, Mother Earth? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fledWhat, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead ?

“Who has known me of old,” replied Earth,

“Or who has my story told ? It is thou who art over-bold."

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth As she

sung, “ To my bosom I fold All

my sons when their knell is knolled, And so with living motion all are fed, And the quick spring like weeds out of the

dead.

66

“Still alive and still bold,” shouted Earth,

I grow bolder, and still more bold. The dead fill me ten thousand fold

Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth; I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, Like a frozen chaos uprolled, Till by the spirit of the mighty dead My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.

66

Ay, alive and still bold,” muttered Earth,

· Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, In terror, and blood, and gold,

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.