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ΔΑΚΡΥΕΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ.*
O THERE are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.
With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
Of these inexplicable things
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles.
Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
The glory of the moon is dead;
Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.
This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
This poem was addressed to Coleridge.
AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away!
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head:
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep:
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows:
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.
WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
Streaking the darkness radiantly !—yet soon
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
We rest.-A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. One wandering thought pollutes the day;
It is the same!-For, be it joy or sorrow,
"There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest."-ECCLESIASTES
THE pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor-beam of a starless night
Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light,
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.
O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel;
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCHYARD, LECHLADE,
THE wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray;
And pallid evening twines its beaming hair
In duskier braids around the languid eyes of day;
Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men,
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen.
They breathe their spells towards the departing day,
Thou too, aërial Pile! whose pinnacles
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire,
The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres;
And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound,
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things around,
Its awful hush is felt inaudibly.
Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild
And terrorless as this serenest night:
Here could I hope, like some inquiring child
Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight
POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return :
Thus, having beer, that thou shouldst cease to be.
THE SENSITIVE PLANT.
A SENSITIVE PLANT in a garden grew,
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent
Then the pied windflowers and the tulip tall,
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,