Imatges de pàgina

Its leaves which had outlived the frost, the thaw

Had blighted as a heart which hatred's eye Can blast not, but which pity kills ; the dew Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too true.


The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth

Had crushed it on her unmaternal breast.


I bore it to my chamber, and I planted

It in a vase full of the lightest mould ;
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted

Fell through the window panes, disrobed of cold, Upon its leaves and flowers; the star which panted

In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light Smiled on it from the threshold of the night.


The mitigated influences of air

And light revived the plant, and from it grew Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair,

Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, O’erflowed with golden colours ; an atmosphere

Of vital warmth infolded it anew, And every impulse sent to every part The unbeheld pulsations of its heart.


Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong,

Even if the sun and air had smiled not on it ; For one wept o'er it all the winter long

Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it
Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song

Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it
To leave the gentle lips on which it slept,
Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.


Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers

On which he wept, the while the savage storm Waked by the darkest of December's hours

Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm ; The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers,

The fish were frozen in the pools, the form Of every summer plant was dead [ ] Whilst this

January, 1822.




Oh thou, who plumed with strong desire

Wouldst float above the earth, beware! A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire

Night is coming! Bright are the regions of the air,

And among the winds and beams It were delight to wander there

Night is coming!


The deathless stars are bright above ;

If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,

And that is day !
And the moon will smile with gentle light

On my golden plumes where'er they move; The meteors will linger round my flight

And make night day.


But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken

Hail and lightning aud stormy rain ; See the bounds of the air are shaken

Night is coming !

The red swift clouds of the hurricane

Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain

Night is coming !


I see the light, and I hear the sound ;

I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark With the calm within and the light around

Which makes night day : And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,

Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound, My moon-like flight thou then may'st mark

On high, far away. Some say, there is a precipice

Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice

Mid Alpine mountains ;
And that the languid storm pursuing

That winged shape for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing

Its aery fountains.

when nights are dry and clear, And the death dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller

Which makes night day: And a silver shape like his early love doth pass

Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,

He finds night day.

Some say,


They were two cousins, almost like to twins,
Except that from the catalogue of sins
Nature had razed their love-which could not be
But by dissevering their nativity.
And so they grew together, like two flowers
Upon one stem, whïch the same beams and showers
Lull or awaken in their purple prime,
Which the same hand will gather-the same clime
Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see
All those who love,-and who ever loved like thee,
Fiordispina ? Scarcely Cosimo,
Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow
The ardonrs of a vision which obscure
The very idol of its portraiture ;
He faints, dissolved into a sense of love ;
But thou art as a planet sphered above,
But thou art Love itself- the ruling motion
Of his subjected spirit-such emotion
Must end in sin and sorrow, if sweet May
Had not brought forth this morn-your wedding day.

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