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What is this world's delight?

“ Or who has my story told ? Lightning that mocks the night,

It is thou who art overbold."
Brief even as bright.

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung,

To my bosom I fold

All my sons when their knell is knolled, Virtue, how frail it is !

And so with living motion all are fed, Friendship how rare !

And the quick spring like weeds out of Love, how it sells poor bliss

the dead. For proud despair ! But we, though soon they fall,

Still alive and still bold,” shouted Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.

“I grow bolder and still more bold.

The dead fill me ten thousandfold

Fuller of speed, and splendour, and Whilst skies are blue and bright,

mirth, Whilst flowers are gay,

I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
Whilst eyes that change ere night

Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Make glad the day;

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead Whilst yet the calm hours creep, My heart grew warm. I feed on whom Dream thou—and from thy sleep

I fed.
Then wake to weep.

· Ay, alive and still bold," muttered

LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,

In terror and blood and gold,

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. OF NAPOLEON

Leave the millions who follow to mould What! alive and so bold, oh earth ?

The metal before it be cold; Art thou not overbold ?

And weave into his shame, which like What! leapest thou forth as of old

the dead In the light of thy morning mirth,

Shrouds me, the hopes that from his The last of the flock of the starry fold ?

glory fled.” Ha! leapest thou forth as of old? Are not the limbs still when the ghost


NESS And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead ?

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, How! is not thy quick heart cold ?

Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in What spark is alive on thy hearth?

arms or arts, How! is not his death-knell knolled ?

Shepherd those herds whom tyranny

makes tame; And livest thou still, Mother Earth ? Thou wert warming thy fingers old

Verse echoes not one beating of their

hearts, O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled-- History is but the shadow of their shame, What, Mother, do you laugh now he is Art veils her glass, or from the pageant dead?


As to oblivion their blind millions fleet, “Who has known me of old," replied Staining that Heaven with obscene Earth,






of their own likeness. What

Trembling at that where I had stood numbers knit

before ; By force or custom? Man who man When will return the glory of your prime? would be,

No more

-Oh, never more ! Must rule the empire of himself; in it Must be supreme, establishing his throne On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy Out of the day and night Of hopes and fears, being himself alone. A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter


Move my faint heart with grief, but with


No more--Oh, never more ! “Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles

Swifter far than summer's flight-

Swister far than youth's delight-
And I, who thought

Swifter far than happy night,
This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Art thou come and gone-
Asked, “Who is Aziola ?” How

As the earth when leaves are dead, elate I felt to know that it was nothing As the heart when joy is Aed,

As the night when sleep is sped,

I am left lone, alone.
No mockery of myself to fear or

hate :
And Mary saw my soul,

The swallow summer comes againAnd laughed, and said, “Disquiet your- The owlet night resumes her reignself not ;

But the wild-swan youth is fain 'Tis nothing but a little downy

To fly with thee, false as thou. owl."

My heart each day desires the morrow ;

Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ;
Sad Aziola ! many an eventide

Vainly would my winter borrow
Thy music I had heard

Sunny leaves from any bough. By wood and stream, meadow and

mountain side,

And fields and marshes wide, Lilies for a bridal bedSuch as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, Roses for a matron's headnor bird,

Violets for a maiden dead-
The soul ever stirred;

Pansies let my flowers be :
Unlike and far sweeter than them all. On the living grave I bear
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I Scatter them without a tear-
Loved thee and thy sad cry. Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.







() world! O life! O time ! On whose last steps I climb

The serpent is shut out from paradise.

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The wounded deer must seek the
herb no more

Ful half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
In which its heart-cure lies :

With various flowers, and every The widowed dove must cease to

one still said, haunt a bower

• She loves me-loves me not.” Like that from which its mate with

And if this meant a vision long feigned sighs

since fled Fled in the April hour.

If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of I too must seldom seek again

thoughtNear happy friends a mitigated pain.

If it meant,-but I dread
To speak what you may know too

well : Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn con

Still there was truth in the sad oracle. tent ; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her Itself indifferent.

home; But, not to speak of love, pity alone

No bird so wild but has its quiet Can break a spirit already more than

nest, bent.

When it no more would roam ; The miserable one

The sleepless billows on the ocean's Turns the mind's poison into food,

breast Its medicine is tears,-its evil good.

Break like a bursting heart, and die in

foam, And thus at length find rest.

Doubtless there is a place of peace Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Where my weak heart and all its throbs Dear friends, dear friend ! know

will cease. that I only fly Your looks, because they stir Griefs that should sleep, and hopes I asked her, yesterday, if she believed that cannot die :

That I had resolution. One who The very comfort that they minister

had I scarce can bear, yet I,

Would ne'er have thus relieved So deeply is the arrow gone,

His heart with words, but what Should quickly perish if it were with

his judgment bade drawn.

Would do, and leave the scorner un


These verses are too sad When I return to my cold home, you ask

To send to you, but that I know,
Why I am not as I have ever been.

Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in life's dull

Of wearing on my brow the idle mask

Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival. I sought | ONE word is too often profaned Peace thus, and but in you I found it For me to profane it, not.

One feeling too falsely disdained





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SAME When passion's trance is overpast, Night, with all thine eyes look down ! If tenderness and truth could last

Darkness shed its holiest dew ! Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep When ever smiled the inconstant moon Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,

On a pair so true ? I should not weep, I should not weep! Hence, coy hour ! and quench thy light,

Lest eyes see their own delight !

llence, swift hour ! and thy loved flight It were enough to feel, to see,

Oft renew. Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,

Boys And dream the rest-and burn and be

() joy ! O fear! what may be done The secret food of fires unseen,

In the absence of the sun ?
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.

Come along!
The golden gates of sleep unbar !

When strength and beauty meet to. After the slumber of the year

gether, The woodland violets reappear,

Kindles their image like a star All things revive in field or grove,

In a sea of glassy weather. And sky and sea, but two, which move, Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light, And form all others, life and love. Lest eyes see their own delight !

Hence, swist hour! and thy loved flight

Oft renew.

O joy ! () fear! what may be done

In the absence of the sun ?
The golden gates of Sleep unbar

Come along! Where Strength and Beauty met to- Fairies ! sprites ! and angels keep her ! gether,

Holiest powers, permit no wrong! Kindle their image like a star

And return, to wake the sleeper, In a sea of glassy weather.

Dawn, ere it be long.


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