Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, With streams and fields and marshes bare, "What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? If morning dreams are true, why I should guess We should have led her by this time of day." "Never mind," said Lionel, "Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see! The white clouds are driving merrily, The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, Comes the laughing morning wind;- Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come,— It sweeps into the affrighted sea; The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline THE AZIOLA. "Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh," Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere the stars were lit, or candles brought; And I, who thought This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not, Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side, And fields and marshes wide, Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than they all: Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry. A LAMENT. O WORLD! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more-Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar. Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more-Oh, never more! THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower, I too, must seldom seek again II. Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; But, not to speak of love, pity alone Turns the mind's poison into food,- Therefore if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : I scarce can bear; yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. IV. When I return to my cold home, you ask You spoil me for the task Of acting a forced part on life's dull scene,- In the world's Carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. V. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot To speak what you may know too well: *See Faust. A LAMENT. VI. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. VII. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed His heart with words,-but what his judgment bade To send to you, but that I know, A LAMENT. SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Art thou come and gone: The swallow Summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou. Vainly would my winter borrow Sunny leaves from any bough. Lilies for a bridal bed, Roses for a matron's head, Violets for a maiden dead, Pansies let my flowers be: On the living grave I bear, Let no friend, however dear, Waste one hope, one fear for me. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. Has led me-who knows how? The wandering airs they faint As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art ! O lift me from the grass! ΤΟ ONE word is too often profaned One feeling too falsely disdained One hope is too like despair I can give not what men call love, |