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When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye,
Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,

And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody

Thro' his pierc'd bosom-on its tones to bear
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,-to rise, to swell,

To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,

If love be strong as death!


Now fair thou art,

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,

I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought,

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die ! But I have been
Too much alone; a heart whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below;
eye to be my star, a voice to bring
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring,
These are denied me- -dreamt of still in vain,-
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.


Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work, in thee,

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter,-give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine,--

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed

Of love's kind words to woman!

Worthless fame!

That in his bosom wins not for my name

Th' abiding-place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,

In its own fairy world of song and art,

Once beat for praise !--Are those high longings o'er?

That which I have been can I be no more ?-

Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!

And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams,
Unchang'd on forms, instinct with poet-dreams;

Where'er I move,

Never, oh! never more!

The shadow of this broken-hearted love

Is on me and around! Too well they know,

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, When there the blight hath settled ;-but I go

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell; From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, The inward burning of those words-" in vain,"

Sear'd on the heart-I go. 'Twill soon be past. Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,

And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth,--who know'st not what was given In that devotedness,-the sad, and deep, And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness, and unto me Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be So richly blest! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;

With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,
To listen silently ;-with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days,

This had been joy enough ;-and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame

A glory for thy brow!-Dreams, dreams!-the fire Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name→

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre

When its full chords are hush'd--awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me :-I leave it, with a sound,

A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound,

I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,

Say proudly yet--"'Twas her's who lov'd me well!"

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