Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again;
Yet heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

And dost thou ask, what secret wo

I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth?

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most:

It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear or see;
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

It is that settled ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.

What Exile from himself can flee?

To Zones, though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, ues, where'er I be,

The blight of life-the demon thought.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

3

What is that worst? Nay do not ask-
In pity from the search forbear :
Smile on-nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.

J

REMORSE.

The spirits I have raised abandon meThe spells which I have studied baffle meThe remedy I recked of tortured me; I lean no more on super-human aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness, It is not of my search. - My mother earth! And thou fresh breaking day, and you, ye mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, Thou openest over all, and unto all Art a delight-thou shin'st not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest for ever-wherefore do I pause? I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge; I see the peril-yet do not recede; And my brain reels-and yet my foot is firm; There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myselfThe last infirmity of evil. Aye,