LINES.

FAn, far away, O ye

Halcyons of memory," Seek some far calmer nest Than this abandon'd breast;No news of your false spring To my heart's winter bring, Once having gone, in vain

Ye come again.

Vultures, who build your bowers

High in the Future's towers,

Wither'd hopes on hopes are spread,

Dying joys choked by the dead,

Will serve your beaks for prey
Many a day.

SUPEIRSTITION.

Thou taintest all thou look'st upon' The stars, which on thy cradle beam'd so brightly sweet, Were gods to the distemper'd playfulness of thy untutor'd infancy; the trees, The grass, the clouds, the mountains, and the sea, All living things that walk, swim, creep, or fly, Were gods: the sun had homage, and the moon tler worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, More daring in thy frenzies: every shape, Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild, Which, from sensation's relics, fancy culls; The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, The genii of the elements, the powers That give a shape to nature's varied works, Ilad life and place in the corrupt belief of thy blind heart : yet still thy youthful hands were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave Its strength and ardour to thy frenzied brain; Thine eager gaze scann'd the stupendous scene,

With mountain winds, and babbling springs, And moonlight seas, that are the voice Of these inexplicable things, Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice When they did answer thee; but they Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes Beams that were never meant for thine, Another's wealth;-tame sacrifice To a fond faith's still dost thou pine? Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands”

Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope On the false earth's inconstancy? Did thine own mind afford no scope Of love, or moving thoughts to thee? That natural scenes or human smiles Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead; Night's ghost and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever Beside thee like thy shadow hangs, Dream not to chase;—the mad endeavour Would scourge thee to severer pangs. Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

STANZAS.—APRIL, 1814.

There stands the Tower cf Famine. It is built
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave
For bread, and gold, and blood: pain, link'd to guilt
Agitates the light flame of their hours,
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt:
There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers
And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers
Of solitary wealth. The tempest-proof
Pavilions of the dark Italian air,
Are by its presence dimm'd—they stand aloof,
And are withdrawn—so that the world is bare,
As if a spectre, wrapt in shapeless terror,
Amid a company of ladies fair
Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror
Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,
The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,
Should be absorb’d till they to marble grew.

The AZIOLA.

* Do you not hear the Ariola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candlesbrought;
And I, who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman,
Ask'd, “Who is Aziola? - how elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate!
And Mary saw my soul,
And laugh'd and said, . Disquiet yourself not,
'T is nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide
Thy music I had heard

By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side.
And fields and marshes wide,-
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirr'd;
Unlike, and far sweeter than them all:
Sad Aziola" from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.

Dirge FOR THE YEAR.

Orphax 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.