Imatges de pÓgina
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And thou hast sought in starry eyes

Beams that were never meant for thine,

Another's wealth:

- tame sacrifice

To a fond faith! still dost thou pine? Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy deman

Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in th
wiles.

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted

The glory of the moon is dead;

Night's ghosts and dreams have now parted;

Thine own soul still is true to thee,

But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,

Dream not to chase; the mad endeavour

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Would scourge thee to severer pangs.

Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

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HE cold earth slept below,

Above the cold sky shone;

And all around, with a chilling

sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow,

The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.

II.

The wintry hedge was black,

The green grass was not seen,

The birds did rest on the bare thorn's breast, Whose roots, beside the pathway track, Had bound their folds o'er many a crack, Which the frost had made between.

III.

Thine eyes glowed in the glare

Of the moon's dying light;

As a fenfire's beam on a sluggish stream,

Gleams dimly, so the moon shone there, And it yellowed the strings of thy raven hair,

That shook in the wind of night.

IV.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved —
The wind made thy bosom chill

The night did shed on thy dear head

Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie

Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.

Feelings of a Republican the Fall of Bonaparte

HATED thee, fallen tyrant

did groan

To think that a most unambit

slave,

Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on

grave

Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built

throne

Where it had stood even now: thou d

prefer

A frail and bloody pomp which time has sw In fragments towards oblivion. Massacre, For this I prayed, would on thy sleep h

crept,

Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lu And stifled thee, their minister. I know

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