How could I look upon the day?

I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana.

Thou comest atween me and the skies,
Oriana.

I feel the tears of blood arise
Up from my heart unto my eyes,

Oriana.

Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursed blow!
Oriana!

O happy thou that liest low,
Oriana!

All night the silence seems to flow
Beside me in my utter woe,
Oriana.

A weary, weary way I go,
Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea,

Oriana,

I walk, I dare not think of thee,

Oriana.

Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee,

Oriana.

I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.

CIRCUMSTANCE.

lay,

Oriana

They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana!

O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana!

Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana:

What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek,

Oriana?

What hope or fear or joy is thine?
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ?
For sure thou art not all alone.

Do beating hearts of salient
springs

Keep measure with thine own?

Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings?

Or in stillest evenings
With what voice the violet woos
To his heart the silver dews?

Or when little airs arise,
How the merry bluebell rings

To the mosses underneath?
Hast thou look'd upon the breath
Of the lilies at sunrise?

Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreamy Adeline?

But ever-trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies.

V.

O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak:

Tie up the ringlets on your cheek:

The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen,

Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between

Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn,

Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn

Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

Because you are the soul of joy,
Bright metal all without alloy.
Life shoots and glances thro' your
veins,

And flashes off a thousand ways,
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays.
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright,
Keen with triumph, watching still
To pierce me thro' with pointed light;
But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,
And your words are seeming-bitter,
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter
From excess of swift delight.

III.

Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:
Too long you keep the upper skies;
Too long you roam and wheel at will;
But we must hood your random eyes,
That care not whom they kill,
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue
Is so sparkling-fresh to view,
Some red heath-flower in the dew,
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind
And keep you fast, my Rosalind,
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,
And clip your wings, and make you
love:

When we have lured you from above, And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,

From North to South,

We'll bind you fast in silken cords
And kiss away the bitter words
From off your rosy mouth.

ELEÄNORE.

I.

THY dark eyes open'd not,

Nor first reveal'd themselves to
English air,

For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought,

Moulded thy baby thought.
Far off from human neighborhood,

Thou wert born, on a summer

morn,