Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity

Thou wilt come for pleasure,

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that the u lovest,

Spirit of delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost

Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise and good;
Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! O Come,

Make once more my heart thy home,

TO NIGHT.

Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,→
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out,

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to is rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me ?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me ?-And 1 replied,
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

EVENING.

PONTE A MARE, PISA.

THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air;
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here and there
Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;

And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town.

Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wrinkled image of the city lay,

Immoveably unquiet, and for ever

It trembles, but it never fades away; Go to the [

You, being changed, will find it then as now.

The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut

By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, Like mountain over mountain huddled- but Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, And over it a space of watery blue,

Which the keen evening star is shining through.