Imatges de pÓgina
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April, 1814

WAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even :

Away! the gathering winds will call the dark

ness soon,

And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away!

Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood:

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

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,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

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.

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To Mary Wollstonecraft



INE eyes were dim with tears un


Yes, I was firm thus wert not thou;

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My baffled looks did fear yet dread

To meet thy looks - I could not know
How anxiously they sought to shine
With soothing pity upon mine.


To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Which preys upon itself alone;
To curse the life which is the cage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan,

Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.


Whilst thou alone, then not regarded, thou alone should be,

The To spend years thus, and be rewarded, As thou, sweet love, requited me When none were near Oh! I did wake From torture for that moment's sake.


Upon my heart thy accents sweet

Of peace and pity fell like dew On flowers half dead; thy lips did meet

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Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw Their soft persuasion on my brain, Charming away its dream of pain.


We are not happy, sweet! our state
Is strange and full of doubt and fear;

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