In my heart's temple I suspend to thee
These votive wreaths of withered memory.

Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow

cage,

Pourest such music, that it might assuage
The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee,
Were they not deaf to all sweet melody;
This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale
Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale !

But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.

High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed

It over-soared this low and worldly shade,
Lie shattered; and thy panting, wounded breast
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest!

I

weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be, Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee.

Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee

Of light, and love, and immortality!

Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse!

Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe!

Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living

Form

Among the Dead! Thou Star above the

Storm!

Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou

Terror!

Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou
Mirror

In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on!
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee

now

Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow!

I

pray thee that thou blot from this sad song All of its much mortality and wrong,

With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew

From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through,

Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy :
Then smile on it, so that it may not die.

I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin

name

Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame.

Would we two had been twins of the same

mother!

Or, that the name my heart lent to another
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee,
Blending two beams of one eternity!

Yet were one lawful and the other true,

These names, though dear, could paint not, as

is due,

How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me!

I am not thine: I am a part of thee.

Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt

its wings;

Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own.

gray style,

All that thou art. Art thou not void of

guile,

A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless?
A well of sealed and secret happiness,

Whose waters like blithe light and music

are,

Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star

Which moves not in the moving Heavens,

alone?

A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone
Amid rude voices? a beloved light?

A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight?

A Lute, which those whom Love has taught to play

Make music on, to soothe the roughest day And lull fond grief asleep? a buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleas

ure;

A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? — I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find-alas! mine own infirmity.

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough

way,

And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day,

Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope,
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope,
In the suspended impulse of its lightness,
Were less ethereally light: the brightness