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And the glance is thine which sees
Thro' nature's awful heart
But bright things go with the summer-breeze, And thou too, must depart!
Yet shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world's breath-
Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!
Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thoughts and bright,
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be !
But the spring shall give us violets back,
flower but thee!
There was a burst of tears around the bard:
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
The minstrel's prophecy.
And spring return'd,
A young sweet spirit gone.
THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
From the "Portrait Gallery," an unfinished Poem.
If there be but one spot upon thy name,
One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice
Whose tones thou shrink'st from-Woman! veil thy face,
THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. --These may be dreams-but how shall woman tell Of woman's shame, and not with tears ?--She fell! That mother left that child!-went hurrying by Its cradle-haply, not without a sigh,
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene
She hung-but no! it could not thus have been,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low, And plaintive--oh! there lie such depths of wo
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze