Imatges de pÓgina


RARELY, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall eyer one like me

Win thee back again ?
With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
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 thi 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 lesse

I love Love-though he has wings

And like light can flee, But above all other things,

Spirit, I love theeThou art love and life! O Come, Mako once more my heart thy home,


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 he thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,

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 I 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!


PONTE A MARE, PISA. Tae sun is set ; the swallows are asleep ;

The bats are fitting 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.

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