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'I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD.'
When twilight steals along the ground,
One, two, three, four and five,
To bliss am all alive.
And I am inly glad,
I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.
Does that disturb my breast ?
Or pleasure's fading vest?
Must bend my lonely way?
At home where'er I stray.
When thou no more canst hear?
Then whence it is I cannot tell,
That holds me when I'm glad;
Or wherefore I am sad.
SOLITUDE. It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow: It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallow'd airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone. The autumn leaf is sear and dead, It floats upon the water's bed; I would not be a leaf, to die Without recording sorrow's sigh! The woods and winds with sudden wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale ; I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh, to sigh with me. Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me too; I start, and when the vision's flown, I weep
that I am all alone,
If far from me the Fates remove
fire-side is lone and still;
FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! Where art thou, love ?--Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. Was it a dream? or did my love behold
Indeed my lonely couch ?-Methought the breath Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold
And hollow, and the livery of death
Invested her pale forehead.-Sainted maid !
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,
Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shore
Of better promise; and I know at last,
When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, We two shall meet in Christ-to part no more.
These Fragments are Henry's latest composition; and were, for the
most part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he
suffered himself to follow the impulse of his genius. "Saw'st thou that light?' exclaim'd the youth, and
paus'd: * Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. Again, more light it gleam'd ;-or does some sprite Delude mine
eyes with shapes of wood and streams, And lamp, far-beaming through the thicket's gloom, As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? No sprite deludes mine eyes,—the beam now glows With steady lustre.-Can it be the moon, Who, hidden long by the invidious veil That blots the heavens, now sets behind the woods ?? No moon to-night has look'd upon Of clouds beneath her,' answer'd Rudiger, • She has been sleeping with Endymion.'
The pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veild · With intervening vapours; and looks down Serene upon the troublouś sea, that hides The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkness all; But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, The glaring sunbeam plays.
Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,
And from his tower of mist,
THERE was a little bird
O PALE art thou, my lamp, and fạint
Thy melancholy ray,
Is walking on her way.