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A midnight hour only than morning less bright.

And the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre, are | When the birds and the roses together are sleep

ing,

Till the mist of the daybreak, like hope fulfill'd,

clears.

There are vases, the flowers within them are breathing

Grove of dark cypress, when noontide is flinging Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my shrine;

Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near; Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreathing,

O temple of pleasure! thou surely art here.

I gazed on the scene; 'twas the dream of a minute;
But it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair:
'Twas the cup's bright inside; and on glancing
within it,

I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing,
And catch from its sweetness a lesson for mine.

And when the red sunset at even is dying,
I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the wave;
While the wind, through the shells in its low
music sighing,

What but the dregs and the darkness were Will seem like the anthem pearl'd over its grave.

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My heart is too much in the things which profane
it;
The cold, and the worldly, why am I like them?
Vanity! with my lute chords I must chain it,
Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem.

And when the bright stars which I worship are beaming,

And writing in beauty and fate on the sky, Then, mine own lute, be the hour of thy dreaming, And the night-flowers will open and echo thy sigh.

Alas! but my dream has like sleep's visions vanish'd;

The hall and the crowd are before me again: Sternly my sweet thoughts like fairies are banish'd; Nay, the faith which believed in them now seems but vain.

I left the gay circle:- if I found it dreary,
Were all others there, then, the thoughtless and
glad?

Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd
weary,

Methinks that dark eye in its drooping was sad.

-I went to my chamber, -I sought to be lonely,-
I leant by the casement to catch the sweet air;
The thick tears fell blinding; and am I then only
Sad, weary, although without actual care ?

The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it;
Or who ever read in the depths of their own?-
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it,
But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!

Sky of wild beauty, in those distant ages

Of which time hath left scarce a wreck or a
name,

It rises before me, that island, where blooming,
The flowers in their thousands are comrades for Say were thy secrets laid bare to the sages,

me;

And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing,
The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the tree.

I'll wander among them when morning is weeping
Her earliest tears, if such pearls can be tears;

Who held that the stars were life's annals of flame?

Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending,

Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning

now;

The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,

Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow.

Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness Forever man's penance and portion must be ; Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness?

Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?

Spirit of fate, from yon troubled west leaning, As its meteor-piled rack were thy home and thy shrine,

Grief is our knowledge, 'twill teach me thy meaning,

Although thou but speak'st it in silence and sign.

I mark'd a soft arch sweep its way over heaven; It spann'd as it ruled the fierce storm which it bound:

The moonshine, the shower, to its influence seem'd given,

And the black clouds grew bright in the beautiful round.

I look'd out again, but few hues were remaining On the side nearest earth; while I gazed, they were past:

As a steed for a time with its curb proudly straining,

Then freed in its strength, came the tempest at last.

And this was the sign of thy answer, dark spirit! Alas! and such ever our pathway appears; Tempest and change still our earth must inherit,Its glory a shade, and its loveliness tears.

WARNING.

PRAY thee, maiden, hear him not! Take thou warning by my lot; Read my scroll, and mark thou all I can tell thee of thy thrall. Thou hast own'd that youthful breast Treasures its most dangerous guest; Thou hast own'd that Love is there: Though now features he may wear, Such as would a saint deceive, Win a skeptic to believe, Only for a time that brow,

Will seem what 'tis seeming now.

I have said, heart, be content!
For Love's power o'er thee is spent.
That I love not now, O true!-
I have bade such dream's adieu:
Therefore deemest thou my heart
Saw them tranquilly depart;
That they past, nor left behind
Wreck and ruin in my mind.
Thou art in the summer hour
Of first passion's carly power;
I am in the autumn day,
Of its darkness, and decay.
-Seems thine idol now to thee
Even as a divinity ?

Such the faith that I too held;
Not the less am I compell'd
All my heart-creed to gainsay,
Own my idol gilded clay,
And yet pine to dream again
What I know is worse than vain.
Ay, I did love, and how well,

Let thine own fond weakness tell:
Still upon the soften'd mood
Of my twilight solitude,

Still upon my midnight tear,
Rises image all too dear;

Dark and starry eyes, whose light
Make the glory of the night;
Brow like ocean's morning foam,
For each noble thought a home.
Well such temple's fair outline
Seem'd the spirit's fitting shrine.
-Is he hero, who hath won
Fields we shrink to think upon ?
Patriot, on whose gifted tongue
Senates in their wonder hung?
Sage, before whose gifted eyes
Nature spreads her mysteries ?
Bard, to whose charm'd lute is given
All that earth can breathe of heaven?-
Seems thy lover these to thee?
Even more mine seem'd to me.
Now, my fond belief is past;
Strange, methinks, if thine should last.
"Be content, thou lovest not now :"
Free, thou sayest,-dream'st thou how?
Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd
Freedom by such ransom paid.
-Girl, for thee I'll lay aside
Veil of smiles and mask of pride;
Shrouds that only ask of Fate
Not to seem so desolate.
-I am young, -but age's snow
Hides not colder depths below;
I am gay, but such a light
Shines upon the grave by night.
-Yet mine is a common tale;

Hearts soon changed, and vows were frail

m

Each one blamed the other's deed,
Yet both felt they were agreed;
Ne'er again might either prove
Those sweet fallacies of love.
-Still for what so vain I hold
Is my wasted heart grown cold.
Can hopes be again believed,
When their sweetest have deceived?
Can affection's chain be trusted,
When its dearest links have rusted?
Can life's dreams again be cherish'd,
When its dearest ones have perish'd?
I know Love will not endure ;-
Nothing now to me seems sure.
-Maiden, by the thousand tears
Lava floods on my first years;
By the nights, when burning pain
Fed upon my heart and brain;
By the wretched days now past,
By the weary days to last;
Be thou warn'd, for still the same
Is Love, beneath whatever name.
Keep thy fond faith like a thing
Where Time never change may bring.
Vow thee to thy idol's shrine,-
Then, maiden! read thy fate in mine.

Here might have been a warrior's rest,
Some chief who bravely bled,
With waving banner, sculptured crest,
And laurel on his head.

That laurel must have had its blood,
That blood have caused its tear,-
Look on the lovely solitude-
What! wish for warfare here!

A poet might have slept,-what! he Whose restless heart first wakes Its lifepulse into melody,

Then o'er it pines and breaks ?

He who hath sung of passionate love,
His life a feverish tale :-
O! not the nightingale, the dove
Would suit its quiet vale.

See, I have named your favourite two,-
Each had been glad to crave

Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew,
And such a nameless grave!

THE NAMELESS GRAVE.

A NAMELESS grave, there is no stone To sanctify the dead:

O'er it the willow droops alone,

With only wild flowers spread.

"O, there is nought to interest here,
No record of a name,

A trumpet call upon the ear,
High on the roll of fame.

"I will not pause beside a tomb
Where nothing calls to mind
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom,
Or elevate mankind ;-

"No glorious memory to efface
The stay of meaner clay;

No intellect whose heavenly trace

Redeem'd our earth:-away!"

Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise

On youth's ambitious pride;

But I will sit and moralize

This lowly stone beside.

Here thousands might have slept, whose name
Had been to thee a spell,

To light thy flashing eyes with flame,-
To bid thy young heart swell.

FANTASIES.

INSCRIBED TO T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ.

1.

I'm weary, I'm weary, this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance, Where each step is a study, a falsehood each glance;

Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning;

Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning,
Are wasted, as fashion, that tyrant, at will
Makes war on sweet Nature, and exiles her still.

2.

I'm weary, I'm weary, I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind? -Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air, O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there! I see them, I see them!-how sweet it must be To sleep in yon lily!-is there room in't for me? I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air.

3.

Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak;

A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke.

Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignonette;

I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net.

Go fetch me a courser: yon reed is but slight,
Yet far is the distance 'twill bear me to-night.
I must have a throne, -ay, yon mushroom may
stay,

It has sprung in a night, 'twill be gather'd next day:

A SUMMER DAY.

SWEET valley, whose streams flow as sparkling and bright

As the stars that descend in the depths of the night; Whose violets fling their rich breath on the air,

And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign :
For, alas! I'm but dreaming, and dreams are but Sweet spendthrifts of treasure the Spring has flung

vain.

REVENGE.

Ar, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile:
Seem as you drank the very air

Her breath perfumed the while:

And wake for her the gifted line,

That wild and witching lay,

And swear your heart is as a shrine, That only owns her sway.

'Tis well: I am revenged at last,Mark you that scornful cheek,

The eye averted as you pass'd,

Spoke more than words could speak.

Ay, now by all the bitter tears,

That I have shed for thee,

The racking doubts, the burning fears,Avenged they well may be

By the nights pass'd in sleepless care, The days of endless wo;

All that you taught my heart to bear, All that yourself will know.

I would not wish to see you laid Within an early tomb;

I should forget how you betray'd, And only weep your doom:

But this is fitting punishment
To live and love in vain,-

O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.

Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,Thine own it will not be;

And back beneath her sunny eye,

It will not turn on thee.

"Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, Far better hadst thou proved;

Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art not beloved.

there.

My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thine own;
Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown:
But still it is something to gaze upon thee,
And bless earth, that such peace on her bosom
can be.

My heart and my steps both grow light as I bound O'er the green grass that covers thy beautiful

ground;

And joy o'er my thoughts, like the sun o'er the leaves, A blessing in giving and taking receives.

I have heap'd up thy flowers, the wild and the sweet,

As if fresh from the touch of the night-elfin's feet; A bough from thy oak, and a sprig from thy

broom,

I take them as keepsakes to tell of thy bloom.

Their green leaves may droop, and their colours may flee,

As if dying with sorrow at parting from thee; And my memory fade with them, till thou wilt

but seem

Like the flitting shape morning recalls of a dream.

Let them fade from their freshness, so leave they behind

One trace, like faint music, impress'd on the mind:
One leaf or one flower to memory will bring
The light of thy beauty, the hope of thy spring.

THE WREATH.

NAY, fling not down those faded flowers,
Too late they're scatter'd round;

And violet and rose-leaf lie
Together on the ground.

How carefully this very morn

Those buds were cull'd and wreath d!

And, 'mid the cloud of that dark hair,

How sweet a sigh they breathed!

And many a gentle word was said Above their morning dye,

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HER cheek is flush'd with fever red;
Her little hand burns in my own;
Alas! and does pain rack her sleep ?
Speak! for I cannot bear that moan.

Yet sleep, I do not wish to look
Again within those languid eyes;
Sleep, though again the heavy lash
May never from their beauty rise.

-Aid, hope for me?-now hold thy peace,
And take that healing cup away:
Life, length of life, to that poor child!-
It is not life for which I pray.

Why should she live for pain, for toil, For wasted frame and broken heart;

SONG.

On never another dream can be
Like that early dream of ours,
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep,
Like a child, among the flowers.

But Hope has waken'd since, and wept,
Like a rainbow, itself away;

And the flowers have faded, and fallen around-
We have none for a wreath to-day.

Now wisdom wakes in the place of Hope,
And our hearts are like winter hours:

Ah! afterlife has been little worth
That early dream of ours.

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