Imatges de pÓgina

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not

entreat thy stay:

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head:

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their

own repose,

For the weary winds are silent, or the

is in the deep:

Some respite to its turbulence unresting knows ;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest—yet till phantoms flee

Which that house and heath and ga made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance, and repentance, and musings are not free

From the music of two voices and the of one sweet smile.

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My baffled looks did fear yet dread

To meet thy looks - I could not know

How anxiously they sought to shine

With soothing pity upon mine.


To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Which preys upon itself alone;

To curse the life which is the cage

Of fettered grief that dares not groan,

Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.


Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,


thou alone should be,

To spend years thus, and be rewarded,
As thou, sweet love, requited me

When none were near- -Oh! I did wake

From torture for that moment's sake.


Upon my heart thy accents sweet


peace and pity fell like dew

On flowers half dead; - thy lips did meet

Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw Their soft persuasion on my brain,

Charming away its dream of pain.


We are not happy, sweet! our state
Is strange and full of doubt and fear;

More need of words that ills abate;

Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thee and me.


Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be
To hide the love thou feel'st for me.

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