making 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; I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing, And when the red sunset at even is dying, What but the dregs and the darkness were Will seem like the anthem pearl'd over its grave. My heart is too much in the things which profane 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, Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd Methinks that dark eye in its drooping was sad. -I went to my chamber, -I sought to be lonely,- The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it; Sky of wild beauty, in those distant ages Of which time hath left scarce a wreck or a It rises before me, that island, where blooming, me; And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing, I'll wander among them when morning is weeping 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! Such the faith that I too held; Let thine own fond weakness tell: Still upon my midnight tear, Dark and starry eyes, whose light Hearts soon changed, and vows were frail m Each one blamed the other's deed, Here might have been a warrior's rest, That laurel must have had its blood, 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, See, I have named your favourite two,- Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew, 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, A trumpet call upon the ear, "I will not pause beside a tomb "No glorious memory to efface 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 To light thy flashing eyes with flame,- 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, 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, 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 : vain. REVENGE. Ar, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair, 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 O my wrung heart, be thou content, 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, there. My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thine own; 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: THE WREATH. NAY, fling not down those faded flowers, And violet and rose-leaf lie 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, HER cheek is flush'd with fever red; Yet sleep, I do not wish to look -Aid, hope for me?-now hold thy peace, Why should she live for pain, for toil, For wasted frame and broken heart; SONG. On never another dream can be But Hope has waken'd since, and wept, And the flowers have faded, and fallen around- Now wisdom wakes in the place of Hope, Ah! afterlife has been little worth : |