TO MARY OH! Mary dear, that you were here In the ivy bower disconsolate; And your brow more * Oh! Mary dear, that you were here; Este, September 1818. THE PAST. WILT thou forget the happy hours Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould? Forget the dead, the past? O yet Memories that make the heart a tomb, for it, Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, And with ghastly whispers tell That joy, once lost, is pain. SONG OF A SPIRIT. WITHIN the silent centre of the earth Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world; Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron. I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds, And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns In the dark space of interstellar air. LIBERTY. THE fiery mountains answer each other; From a single cloud the lightning flashes, But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare, And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp; Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy stare Makes blind the volcanos; the sun's bright lamp To thine is a fen-fire damp. From billow and mountain and exhalation ΤΟ MINE eyes were dim with tears unshed; To sit and curb the soul's mute rage Of fettered grief that dares not groan, Hiding from many a careless eye The scorned load of agony. Whilst thou alone, then not regarded, The [ ] 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 Of peace and pity, fell like dew On flowers half dead;-thy lips did meet Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw Thy soft persuasion on my brain, Charming away its dream of pain. |