TO-MORROW

WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When young and old, and strong and weak,

,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,
In thy place — ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled — To-day.

·

LINES

IF I walk in Autumn's even

While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring's soft heaven,

Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,
Summer's clouds, where are they now?

A LAMENT

O WORLD! O life! O time !
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime ?
No more

II

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more

oh, never more!

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822

LINES

I
WHEN the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead;

When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed ;

When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

II

As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render No

song when the spirit is mute : No song but sad dirges, , Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ?

IV

Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high ;

Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.

THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT

“SLEEP, sleep on! forget thy pain;

My hand is on thy brow,
My spirit on thy brain;
My pity on thy heart, poor friend ;

1
And from my fingers flow
The powers of life, and like a sign,

And brood on thee, but may not blend

With thine.

II

“Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not;

But when I think that he
Who made and makes my lot
As full of flowers, as thine of weeds,

Might have been lost like thee;
And that a hand which was not mine

Might then have charmed his agony As I another's - my

heart bleeds For thine.

III
“ Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of

The dead and the unborn
Forget thy life and love;
Forget that thou must wake forever;

Forget the world's dull scorn;
Forget lost health, and the divine

Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; And forget me, for I can never Be thine.

IV
“ Like a cloud big with a May shower,

My soul weeps healing rain
On thee, thou withered flower;
It breathes mute music on thy sleep;

Its odor calms thy brain !
Its light within thy gloomy breast