Among these tombs and ruins wild ;-
Let me think that through low seeds
Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass,
Into their hues and scents may pass
A portion-

June, 1819.

AN ALLEGORY.

PORTAL as of shadowy adamant

Stands yawning on the highway of the life Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt;

Around it rages an unceasing strife

Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky.

And many pass it by with careless tread,
Not knowing that a shadowy [
Tracks every traveller even to where the dead
Wait peacefully for their companion new;
But others, by more curious humour led,
Pause to examine,-these are very few,
And they learn little there, except to know
That shadows follow them where'er they go.

MUTABILITY.

HE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,
Tempts and then flies;

What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,

Survive their joy and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou-and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

M

FROM THE ARABIC.

AN IMITATION.

Y faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;

It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight
Bore thee far from me;

My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,

Shall mine cling to thee,

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.

ΤΟ

NE word is too often prcfaned
For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd
For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear,
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

MUSIC.

PANT for the music which is divine,

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,

Loosen the notes in a silver shower;

Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,

I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, O more,-I am thirsting yet,

It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it;

The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

As the scent of a violet wither'd up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake; When the hot noon has drain'd its dewy cup,

And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blueAs one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of foaming, and sparkling and murmuring wine Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,

Invites to love with her kiss divine.

HE cold earth slept below;
Above the cold sky shone;
And all around,

With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black,

The green grass was not seen,

The birds did rest

On the bare thorn's breast,

Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.

Thine eyes glow'd in the glare

Of the moon's dying light;

As a fen-fire's beam,
On a sluggish stream,

Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there,
And it yellow'd the strings of thy tangled hair
That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;

The wind made thy bosom chill;

The night did shed

On thy dear head

Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.

November, 1815.

DEATH.

|EATH is here and death is there,
Death is busy everywhere,

All around, within, beneath,

Above is death-and we are death.

First our pleasures die—and then

Our hopes, and then our fears-and when These are dead, the debt is due,

Dust claims dust--and we die too.

All things that we love and cherish,
Like ourselves must fade and perish,

Such is our rude mortal lot,

Love itself would, did they not.