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But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure, Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure.
ON A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND.
Ah, from my eyes the tears unbidden start,
Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
Fallen pile! I ask not what has been thy fate,
But when the weak winds wafted from the main, Through each lone arch, like spirits that complain, Come mourning to my ear, I meditate
On this world's passing pageant, and on those
Who once like thee majestic and sublime Have stood; till bow'd beneath the hand of time, Or hard mishap, at their sad evening's close, Their bold and beauteous port has sunk forlorn! Yet, wearing still a charm, that age and cares Could ne'er subdue, decking the silver hairs Of sorrow, as with short-liv'd gleam the morn
Illumines, whilst it weeps, the refted tower [shower. That lifts its forehead grey, and smiles amidst the
O Harmony! thou tenderest nurse of pain,
With smiles to think on some delightful dream,
TO THE RIVER CHERWELL.
Cherwell, how pleas'd along thy willow'd edge
Of joy returns, as when heaven's beauteous bow
Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.
THE BROKEN HEART.
Jeron. So, all is hush'd at last. Hist! there she lies, Who should have been my own: Sylvestra! No; She sleeps; and from her parted lips there comes A fragrance such as April mornings draw From the awakening flowers. There lies her arm, Stretch'd out like marble on the quilted lid, And motionless. What if she lives not?--Oh! How beautiful she is! How far beyond Those bright creations, which the fabling Greeks Plac'd on their white Olympus. That great queen, Before whose eye Jove's starry armies shrank To darkness, and the wide and billowy seas Grew tranquil, was a spotted leper to her : And never in such pure divinity
Could sway the wanton blood as she did-Hark! She murmurs like a cradled child. How soft 'tis. Sylvestra!
Sylv. Ha! who's there?
Jeron. 'Tis I.
Sylv. Who is it?
Jeron. Must I then speak, and tell my name to you? Sylvestra, fair Sylvestra! know me now:
Not now? and is my very voice so chang'd
Lov'd you like life; like heaven and happiness: Lov'd you, and kept your name against his heart (Ill boding amulet) 'till death.
Jeron. And now I come to bring your wandering Back to their innocent home. Thus, as 'tis said, Do spirits quit their leaden urns, to tempt Wretches from sin. Some have been seen o'nights To stand and point their rattling finger at The red moon as it rose; (perhaps to turn Man's thoughts on high.) Some their lean arms have stretch'd [laugh'd "Tween murderers and their victims: some have Ghastly, upon-the bed of wantonness, And touch'd the limbs with death. Sylv. You will not harm me?
I would not chill, with this decaying touch,
Sylv. How is this?
Jeron. I've numbered eighteen summers. Much
In that short compass; but my days have been
I thought,- (speak softly, for my husband sleeps,)
You'd quite forgotten Italy.
Jeron. Speak again,
Was't so indeed?
Sylv. Indeed, indeed.
Jeron. Then be it.
Yet, what had I done Fortune, that she could
Sylv. Alas! alas!
Jeron. Sweet! in the land to come we'll feed on
I wrote, and wrote, but never heard; at last,
Jeron. Then I
Threaten'd, and vow'd, cajol'd, and then-I mar Jeron. Oh! [ried,
Sylv. What's the matter?
Jeron. Soft! The night wind sounds A funeral dirge, for me, sweet. Let me lie Upon thy breast; I will not chill't, my love. It is a shrine where Innocence might die: Nay, let me lie there once; for once, Sylvestra. Sylv. Pity me!
Jeron. So I do.
Sylv. Then talk not thus ;
Though but a jest it makes me tremble.
Look in my eye, and mark how true the tale
Sylv. Why, now you're cheerful.
Jeron. Do so, and I'll smile too.
I do; albeit-Ah! now my parting words
Jeron. "Tis so: but scorn it not, my own poor girl. They've used us hardly: bless 'em though. Thou wilt Forgive them. One's a mother, and may feel, When that she knows me dead. Some air-more air: Where are you? I am blind-my hands are numb'd: This is a wintry night.-So,-cover me.
The night was gloomy. Through the skies of June
'Midst dark and heavy clouds, that bore
In the blue ether floated silently.
I lay upon my bed, and sank to sleep:
Had come like fairy visions, and departed.
When Jove himself bowed his Saturnian head
First, I saw a landscape fair
Like Ida's woody summits and sweet fields,
Flourishes. Three proud shapes were seen,
Like Olympian queens descended.
With simple flowers; the third was crowned,
Not one of those figures divine
On Jove, though the blue skies were shaken;
Or, with superior aspect, taken
Was black, and curled his temples 'round;
And now from out the watery floor
And towers that touched the stars, and halls
Palace on lofty palace sprung;
Walked princely shapes: some with an air
This was famous Babylon.
That glorious vision passed on,
And then I heard the laurel-branches sigh,
That still grow where the bright-ey'd muses walk'd: And Pelion shook his piny locks, and talked
Mournfully to the fields of Thessaly.
Went rolling onwards through the sunny calm,
The silence which that holy place had bred.
And then came one who on the Nubian sands
And how she smil'd, and kissed his willing hands,
Oh, matchless Cleopatra! never since
Shall one like thee tread on the Egypt shore,
Never shall one laugh, love, or die like thee,
And, brave Mark Antony, that thou could'st give
With that enchantress, did become thee well;
And then I heard the sullen waters roar,
In the sea-caverns, moved by those fierce jars,
Methought one told me that a child
Was that night unto the great Neptune born;
Came up like phantoms from their coral halls,
-I trembled and awoke.
Now, give me but a cot that's good, In some great town's neighbourhood: A garden, where the winds may play Fresh from the blue hills far away, And wanton with such trees as bear
Their loads of green through all the year, Laurel, and dusky juniper:
So may some friends, whose social talk
I love, there take their evening walk,
And may I own a quiet room,
Where the morning sun may come,
Ranged in separate cases round,
Isis, with her sweeping hair,
Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought
Of Pallas, or Laocoon,
Or Adrian's boy Antinous,
Or some that conquest lately brought
And one I'd have, whose heaving breast
(Else, haply, she might change as soon,)
She should be a woman who
I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin
She whom I loved has fled;
And now with the lost dead
I rank her; and the heart that loved her so, (But could not bear her pride,)
In its own cell hath died,
And turn'd to dust,-but this she shall not know.
'Twould please her did she think
That my poor frame did shrink,
And waste and wither; and that love's own light Did blast its temple, where
'Twas worshipped many a year;
Veil'd (like some holy thing) from human sight.
Oh! had you seen her when
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed eye
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marbled bosom silently.
What matters this?-thou Lyre,
Thy master to rehearse those songs again:
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in vain.
TO A CHILD.
Fairest of earth's creatures!
All thy innocent features
Moulded in beauty do become thee well.
Be free from pains, and fears,
False love, and others envy, and the guile
And all the various ills that dwell
In this so strange compounded world; and may
With, now and then, a tear
For joy, or others sorrows, not thy own;
Like a stream afar
Flow in perpetual music, and its tone
Be joyful, and bid all who hear rejoice.
And may thy bright eye, like a star,
Shine sweet, and cheer the hearts that love thee,
And take in all the beauty of the flowers,
Deep woods and running brooks, and the rich sights
Which thou may'st note above thee
At noontide, or on interlunar nights,
Or when blue Iris, after showers,
Bends her cerulean bow, and seems to rest
Oh, for that winged steed, Bellerophon! That Pallas gave thee in her infinite grace