And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge, And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, With moonlight beams of their own watery light; Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, Has led me-who knows how? The wandering airs they faint Like sweet thoughts in a dream; As I must on thine, O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast, STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Like many a voice of one delight, I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walked with inward glory crowned- Smiling they live and call life pleasure;- Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, Which I have borne and yet múst bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not,—and yet regret, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. December, 1818. AUTUMN: A DIRGE. THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, months, come away; Put on white, black, and grey, Let your light sisters play Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. |