A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains : Before its blue and moveless depth were flying Grey mists poured forth from the unresting fountains Of darkness in the North :-the day was dying :Sudden, the sun shone forth, its beams were lying Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see, And on the shattered vapours, which defying The power of light in vain, tossed restlessly In the red Heaven, like wrecks in a tempestuous sea.

It was a stream of living beams, whose bank
On either side by the cloud's cleft was made;
And where its chasms that flood of glory drank,
Its waves gushed forth like fire, and as if swayed
By some mute tempest, rolled on her; the shade
Of her bright image floated on the river

Of liquid light, which then did end and fade—
Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver;
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flame did quiver.

I stood beside her, but she saw me not-
She looked upon the sea, and skies, and earth;
Rapture, and love, and admiration wrought
A passion deeper far than tears, or mirth,
Or speech, or gesture, or whate'er has birth
From common joy; which, with the speechless
feeling

That led her there, united and shot forth

From her far eyes, a light of deep revealing,

All but her dearest self from my regard concealing.

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day ;
Solemn hours! wail aloud

For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year :-be calm and mild, Trembling hours, she will arise

With new love within her eyes.

January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, O, ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers.

MUTABILITY.

THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship how rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou-and from thy sleep

Then wake to weep.

TO-MORROW.

WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When young and old and strong and weak,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,—

In thy place-ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled-To-day.

1821.

LINES.

IF I walk in Autumn's even
While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring's soft heaven,-
Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,
Summer's clouds, where are they now?

THE PAST.

WILT thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?
Blossoms which were the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.

Forget the dead, the past?

O yet

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,
Memories that make the heart a tomb,

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.

1818.

TIME LONG PAST.

LIKE the ghost of a dear friend dead
Is time long past.

A tone which is now forever fled,
A hope which is now forever past,
A love so sweet it could not last,

Was time long past.

There were sweet dreams in the night
Of time long past;

And, was it sadness or delight,

Each day a shadow onward cast

Which made us wish it yet might last

That time long past.