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But you said

Loved! Oh, I love.

This word of love is fit for all the world,
And that for gentle hearts another name
Would speak of gentler thoughts than
the world owns.

I have loved.


And thou lovest

not? if so Young as thou art thou canst afford to weep.

Lady. Oh! would that I could claim exemption

From all the bitterness of that sweet


I loved, I love, and when I love no


Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair

To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me,

The embodied vision of the brightest dream,

Which like a dawn heralds the day of

Indian. And, if my grief should still be dearer to me


Than all the pleasures in the world The shadow of his presence made my beside,


Why would you lighten it ?—


paradise. All familiar things he touched,


I offer only That which I seek, some human sym- All pathy

common words he spoke, became

to me

Like forms and sounds of a diviner

In this mysterious island.
Oh! my friend,
My sister, my beloved!- What do I

He was as is the sun in his fierce youth,
As terrible and lovely as a tempest;

My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know He came, and went, and left me what


I am.

Alas! Why must I think how oft we From such an islet, such



a riverHave sate together near the river springs, I dare not ask her if there stood upon Under the green pavilion which the it willow

A pleasure - dome surmounted by a crescent,

Spreads on the floor of the unbroken

With steps to the blue water. [Aloud.]
It may be

Strewn by the nurslings that linger

That Nature masks in life several copies Over that islet paved with flowers and Of the same lot, so that the sufferers May feel another's sorrow as their own, While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes And find in friendship what they lost in


of crimson snow, love. Showered on us, and the dove mourned That cannot be: yet it is strange that

in the pine,


Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own? From the same scene, by the same path The crane returned to her unfrozen

to this




And the false cuckoo bade the Spring good morn;

And on a wintry bough the widowed

Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves,
Renewed the vigils of a sleepless


I, left like her, and leaving one like her,


As like as violet to violet,
When memory, the ghost, their odours


'Mid the cold relics of abandoned joy.— Proceed.


of abandonmentspeak! your breathYour breath is like soft music, your words are

The echoes of a voice which on my heart

Sleeps like a melody of early days.
But as you said—


He was so awful, yet So beautiful in mystery and terror, Calming me as the loveliness of heaven Soothes the unquiet sea:—and yet not


Alike abandoned and abandoning
(Oh! unlike her in this!) the gentlest


Whose love had made my sorrows dear For he seemed stormy, and would often

to him,


Even as my sorrow made his love to A quenchless sun masked in portentous me! clouds;

Indian. One curse of Nature stamps For such his thoughts, and even his in the same mould actions were ; The features of the wretched; and they But he was not of them, nor they of him,

But as they hid his splendour from the earth.

Some said he was a man of blood and


And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. He was a simple inno- More need was there I should be innocent boy. cent, I loved him well, but not as he desired; Yet even thus he was content to be:A short content, for I was--Indian [Aside]. God of heaven!

More need that I should be most true and kind,

And much more need that there should be found one



To share remorse and scorn and soli- Brighter than morning light, and purer

And all the ills that wait on those who The water of the springs of Himalah.
Indian. You waked not?
Not until my dream

The tasks of ruin in the world of life.
He fled, and I have followed him.

became Such a one Like a child's legend on the tideless sand,

Which the first foam erases half, and half Leaves legible. At length I rose, and went,

Visiting my flowers from pot to pot, and thought

To set new cuttings in the empty urns, And when I came to that beside the lattice,

Is he who was the winter of my peace. But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart

From the far hills where rise the springs of India,

How didst thou pass the intervening sea? Lady. If I be sure I am not dreaming now,

I should not doubt to say it was a dream.
Methought a star came down from heaven,
And rested 'mid the plants of India,
Which I had given a shelter from the

There the meteor

Within my chamber.


Panting forth light among the leaves The plant grew fresh and thick, yet no and flowers, one knew

As if it lived, and was outworn with What plant it was; its stem and tendrils seemed


Or that it loved, and passion made the Like emerald snakes, mottled and diamonded


Of its bright life throb like an anxious With azure mail and streaks of woven



Till it diffused itself, and all the chamber And all the sheaths that folded the dark And walls seemed melted into emerald buds


A spirit like a child, and laughed aloud
A thrilling peal of such sweet merriment
As made the blood tingle in my warm

I saw two little dark-green leaves Lifting the light mould at their birth, and then


Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel,

That burned not; in the midst of which Until the golden eye of the bright flower, Through the dark lashes of those veinèd lids,

Then bent over a vase, and murmuring
Low, unintelligible melodies,
Placed something in the mould like
melon seeds,

I half-remembered my forgotten dream.
And day by day, green as a gourd in

And slowly faded, and in place of it
A soft hand issued from the veil of fire,
Holding a cup like a magnolia flower,
And poured upon the earth within the


The element with which it overflowed,

Disencumbered of their silent sleep,
Gazed like a star into the morning light.
Its leaves were delicate, you almost saw
The pulses

With which the purple velvet flower was

To overflow, and like a poet's heart
Changing bright fancy to sweet sentiment,
Changed half the light to fragrance. It
soon fell,

And to a green and dewy embryo-fruit
Left all its treasured beauty. Day by


I nursed the plant, and on the double Whose pulse, elapsed in unlike symflute

Kept time

Among the snowy water-lily buds.
Its shape was such as summer melody
Of the south wind in spicy vales might

Played to it on the sunny winter days
Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain
On silent leaves, and sang those words
in which

Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping strings;

And I would send tales of forgotten love Late into the lone night, and sing wild songs

Of maids deserted in the olden time, And weep like a soft cloud in April's bosom

Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant,
So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring

To some light cloud bound from the
golden dawn

To fairy isles of evening, and it seemed
In hue and form that it had been a mirror
Of all the hues and forms around it and
Upon it pictured by the sunny beams
Which, from the bright vibrations of the

Were thrown upon the rafters and the

was come,

And crept abroad into the moonlight air, Of boughs and leaves, and on the pillared And loosened all its limbs, as, noon by



Then it dilated, and it grew until
One half lay floating on the fountain



Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflections
Of every infant flower and star of moss
And veined leaf in the azure odorous air.
And thus it lay in the Elysian calm
Of its own beauty, floating on the line
Which, like a film in purest space,


The sun averted less his oblique beam.
Indian. And the plant died not in
the frost?
It grew;
And went out of the lattice which I left
Half open for it, trailing its quaint spires
Along the garden and across the lawn,
And down the slope of moss and through

the tufts


The heaven beneath the water from the
Above the clouds; and every day I went
Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of trees Watching its growth and wondering;
And as the day grew hot, methought I
With simple lichens, and old hoary stones,
On to the margin of the glassy pool,
Even to a nook of unblown violets
And lilies-of-the-valley yet unborn,
Under a pine with ivy overgrown.
And there its fruit lay like a sleeping | Like clouds of gnats with perfect linea-

A glassy vapour dancing on the pool,
And on it little quaint and filmy shapes,
With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and


Under the shadows; but when Spring
Came to unswathe her infants, and the
Peeped from their bright green masks
to wonder at

This shape of autumn couched in their

O friend, sleep was a veil uplift from


As if heaven dawned upon the world of dream

When darkness rose on the extinguished

Out of the eastern wilderness.

I too Have found a moment's paradise in sleep Half compensate a hell of waking sorrow.

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That sin and wrongs wound as an orphan's cry,

The patience of the great Avenger's ear.
A Youth. Yet, father, 'tis a happy
sight to see,

Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden
By God or man;-'tis like the bright

Of skiey visions in a solemn dream
From which men wake as from a para-

And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life.


If God be good, wherefore should this be evil?

Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pur

suivants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make Judges, Clerk.

And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw

The night to day, and London to a


Of peace and joy?
Second Citizen.


Eight years are gone,
And they seem hours, since in this
populous street

I trod on grass made green by summer's

For the red plague kept state within that palace

Where now reigns vanity. In nine years


The roots will be refreshed with civil
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven

Unseasonable poison from the flowers Which bloom so rarely in this barren world?

When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant

A Pursuivant. Place, for the Marshal | And open-eyed Conspiracy lie sleeping of the Mask! As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle First Citizen. What thinkest thou thoughts of this quaint mask which turns, Like morning from the shadow of the night,

the present Dark as the future!

Waken to worship Him who giveth joys
With his own gift.

Second Citizen. How young art thou
in this old age of time!

How green in this gray world! Canst thou discern And Hell to The signs of seasons, yet perceive no hint

Of change in that stage-scene in which
thou art

Not a spectator but an actor? or
Art thou a puppet moved by [enginery]?
The day that dawns in fire will die in

Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done,

Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found

My inn of lasting rest; but thou must still

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