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Withered hopes on hopes are spread;
Many a day.
RARELY, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
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 ?
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Even the sighs of grief
Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure ;-
Thou wilt come for pleasure ;-
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
And the starry night ;
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
Every thing almost
be Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
Between thee and me
I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But, above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee-
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.
Music, when soft voices die,
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH
What! alive and so bold, O Earth ?
Art thou not over-bold ?
In the light of thy morning mirth,
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
bosom I fold
“ 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.
“ 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.