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THE WORLD'S WANDERER.
TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey
Weary wind, who wanderest
TO THE MOON.
ART thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
Like many a voice of one delight,
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown ;
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
And walked with inward glory crowned-
Smiling they live and call life pleasure ;—
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
YE gentle visitations of calm thought-
THE FOREST AT EVENING.
IN silence then they took the way,
Pursuing still the path that wound
O'er which the columned wood did frame
Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, Man's early race once knelt beneath
The overhanging deity.
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky,
The pale snake, that with eager breath
One solitary leaf on high ;
The birds are on the branches dreaming:
Only the glow-worm is gleaming:
But she is mute; for her false mate
Has fled and left her desolate.
Rosalind and Helen.
ITALY AND SORROW.
Alas! Italian winds are mild,
But my bosom is cold-wintry cold—
When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves,
Soft music, my poor brain is wild,
And I am weak like a nursling child
Though my soul with grief is grey and old.