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FROM THE ARABIC.
My faint spirit was sitting in the light
It panted for thee like the hind at noon
Bore thee far from me;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary
Did companion thee.
Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.
ONE word is too often profaned
For prudence to smother,
I can give not what men call love,
I PANT for the music which is divine, My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet
More, O more,-I am thirsting yet, It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to`stifle it; The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.
As the scent of a violet withered up, Which grew by the brink of a silver lake;
When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,
And mist there was none its thirst to slake
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew
On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue
As one who drinks from a charmed cup Of foaming, and sparkling and murmuring wine
Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, Invites to love with her kiss divine.
THE cold earth slept below;
With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow, The breath of night like death did flow Beneath the sinking moon.
The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
On the bare thorn's breast, Whose roots, beside the pathway track, Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;
As a fen-fire's beam,
On a sluggish stream,
Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair
That shook in the wind of night.
WHEN passion's trance is overpast,
It were enough to feel, to see
Have woven all the wondrous imagery Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world;
Infinite depths of unknown elements Massed into one impenetrable mask; Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron.
And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven
I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds,
And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns
In the dark space of interstellar air.
THE fiery mountains answer each other;
Their thunderings are echoed from
zone to zone;
The tempestuous oceans awake one another,
And the ice-rocks are shaken round winter's zone
When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown.
From a single cloud the lightning flashes,
Whilst a thousand isles are illumined around,
Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes,
An hundred are shuddering and tottering; the sound
Is bellowing underground. 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 volcanoes; the sun's bright lamp
To thine is a fen-fire damp.
From billow and mountain and exhalation
The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast;
From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation,
From city to hamlet thy dawning is
And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night
In the van of the morning light.
MINE eyes were dim with tears unshed;
To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan,
Of peace and pity, fell like dew On flowers half dead;-thy lips did
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw
Thy soft persuasion on my brain,
Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thou and me. Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor I can live if thou appear Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart Away from me, or stoop to wear The mask of scorn, although it be To hide the love thou feel for me.
THE ISLE. THERE was a little lawny islet By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven: And its roof was flowers and leaves Which the summer's breath enweaves, Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven.
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains
A lake's blue chasm.
No news of your false spring
Vultures, who build your bowers
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! wait 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. January 1st, 1821.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
THE everlasting universe, of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river